


Dance With the Devil

by Snowgrouse



Series: Devilry [2]
Category: A Woman's Face (1941), Original Work
Genre: 1940s, 24/7 (temporary), Age Difference, Age Play, Anal Fingering, Anal Fisting, Anal Gaping, Anal Play, Anal Plug, Anal Sex, Anal-oral, Androgynous male character, Androgyny, Ass to Mouth, BDSM, Bathroom Sex, Bisexual Female Character, Bisexual Male Character, Bisexuality, Biting, Bondage, Breathplay, Caning, Choking, Clothespegs, Collars, Crossdressing, Cruising, Daddy Issues, Daddy Kink, Dark Het, Darkfic, Decadence, Diablerie, Dirty Anal, Dirty Ass To Mouth, Dirty Talk, Dominant Androgynous Male Character, Double Anal Penetration, Double Penetration, Drooling, Dubious Consent, Enema drinking, Enemas, Exhibitionism, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/F, F/M, Face Slapping, Face-Fucking, Felching, Female Ejaculation, Female sexual agency, Femslash, Fingerfucking, First Time, Fisting, Frottage, Gags, Genderfuck, Genital Shaving, Genital Torture, Gore, Group Sex, Hair-pulling, Hard BDSM, Het, Het and Slash, Heterosexual Anal Sex (female receiving), Heterosexual Anal Sex (male receiving), Homosexuality, Human Furniture, Humiliation, Hurt/Comfort, Hypnotism, Incest, Intelligent Submissive Female Character, Leashes, Lesbian Anal Sex, Lesbianism, M/M, Masturbation, Mild Scat, Mirror Sex, Multi, Murder, Nipple Clamps, Non-Consensual, OC played by Anthony Ainley (Acheron), OC played by Claude Rains (Smythe), OC played by Tom Hiddleston (Robbie), Older Man/Younger Man, Older Man/Younger Woman, Orgasm Delay, Orgy, Original Fiction, POV Bisexual Character, Period Attitudes Towards Sexuality and Gender, Pinching, Pinstripes, Public Sex, Queer Het, Recreational Drug Use, Rimming, Roleplay, Romance, Rough Sex, Scat, Seduction, Semi-Public Sex, Sex Club, Sex Swing, Sex Toys, Slapping, Slash, Snowballing, Spit Kink, Spitroasting, Suit Porn, Tit Torture, Tuxedos, Uncle/Niece Incest, Underage - Freeform, Underage Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Voyeurism, Walking Canes, Watersports, Wet & Messy, Whipping, World War II, ass to other person's mouth, costume porn, daddy/daughter, elegance, elegance fetish, extreme anal play, facesitting, gagging, glamour, glamour fetish, heterosexual anal sex, incest (consensual), occultism, transvestism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-07
Updated: 2014-05-29
Packaged: 2018-01-23 21:59:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 12
Words: 100,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1580960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snowgrouse/pseuds/Snowgrouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Which one of us was more insane, he or I? Because I loved this, loved being violated over and over, giving myself to my beloved uncle, my beloved father over and over. I could have left him long ago, could have rejected his desires, but why should I have if those desires matched mine exactly? I laughed inside at the idea of what would have happened had Fate never brought us together. Would he have become a real molester, preying on true innocents instead of the child who was born a whore? Would I have burned myself to exhaustion seducing older men, none of whom would have dared give me this, the father-lover I had always sought?</i>
</p><p>Laura and Torsten leave war-torn Europe for America, taking on new lovers and indulging in new debaucheries. As they descend into the clandestine world of New York's elite sex clubs, they soon discover the patrons gamble with more than just their reputations. After falling afoul of a sinister English nobleman, they realise their very lives may be at stake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A sequel to [Because the World Belongs to the Devil.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1062373) Will not make much sense without knowledge of the first part. You needn't have seen the movie to enjoy either story, however.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A cast list with photos [here.](http://aikainkauna.tumblr.com/post/85022088623/guest-cast-for-dance-with-the-devil-anita)

_You and I shall laugh together with the storm,_  
_And together we shall dig graves for all that die in us,_  
_And we shall stand in the sun with a will,_  
_And we shall be dangerous._

_\--Kahlil Gibran_

***

**New York City, March 3, 1940**

"It's called an Electra complex," the psychoanalyst said, leaning towards me confidentially. 

I burst out laughing. "Is that the best you can do?" And by saying this, I could see I had disconcerted her. I knew full well what she was talking about. It was the same story all over again: someone twice my age treating me like a child, thinking herself wiser than me, yet whose experience was nothing compared to mine. _Have **you** fucked your dad?_ I thought, the question quivering on the tip of my tongue as I watched her lean back in her seat, withdrawing. I wanted to throw it at her, to lash her with it, to shame her with my sins, greater than the ones she must have been dreaming of herself.

It was she I came here for: not so that I could be analysed but so that I could analyse _her,_ probe her. She held some sort of twisted fascination for me. She was so unlike the bespectacled, bow tie-wearing, sex-obsessed, repressed male analysts--as far from them as could be. I was looking at a beautiful woman on the cusp of forty, a little on the thin side but with an enormous, voluptuous mouth painted the red of arterial blood, with nails of verdigris. She was well-groomed, her hair a dark cloud around her head, the product of many carefully applied irons and curlers and waxes. It was an elegant head she had, classically beautiful and set with eyes of distinctly masculine strength and intelligence. The eyes of a royal mistress, I thought, one who would become queen--oh, Torsten would have liked her. She carried this elegant head on her shoulders in the manner of an aristocrat, but as a real aristocrat myself, I could always smell a climber. 

Nevermind. I liked a woman with ambition; it was funny that she had not yet noticed that it was my narcissism that drew me to her, to someone ruthless, manipulative, lustful. She walked like a prostitute, offering her hips as she walked, and by their looseness I could tell she knew how to reach orgasm. Yet, I wondered about her. _Why are you doing this? Why are you analysing others? Is it a sign of weakness, something you do to distract yourself from your own unhappiness? Were the orgasms given to you by a lover and not your husband? Clearly they have not been good enough._ For I could sense unhappiness in her, a wariness she tried so hard to mask; the little twitches at the corners of her mouth and the way she held her pen revealed a neurotic greater than I. Someone still hungry. A woman of her age with all this sensuality exuding from her, and yet she was still locked up in so many places, still carried some shame in her. _You need to be whipped, my dear,_ I thought; _you, too, need to be fucked by your dad._

"Why do you think people seek out their mothers, their fathers in their lovers?" I asked, turning the question right back on her. I crossed my legs and lit a cigarette, using the pause to put more pressure on her, to force her to answer. I could see her swallowing, a beautiful blue vein bobbing upon the paleness of her throat. In that moment I felt a vampire, wanting to nuzzle that neck, to bite into her, to suck her dry of her shame and leave her a whore. 

She hesitated, beautifully, casting her blue-painted eyelashes down, an act that seemed consciously coquettish yet wasn't, as if she was a born sensualist. Just like Torsten and I, just like Torsten and I. "For many, it stems from childhood experiences of abandonment," she said, pretending coolness, pretending to look at her notes, even if I could tell she was doodling circles on the paper. "It's quite common," she generalised, yet I knew she was talking about herself. 

The devil in me could not resist any longer. I stumped my cigarette and waited until her eyes met mine once more. I took her gaze and held it, opened and crossed my legs again--my dress was so short she couldn't miss a flash of my garters and oh, excellent, look at that. Her chest heaved, her small breasts pushing forwards in an unconscious reflex of arousal. She was vulnerable, now, so I threw the knife.

"So, Anita; did you ever want to fuck your dad?"

Her eyes flew wide and she stood up, clutching her notepad to her chest. "I don't think that's at all appropriate, Miss Barring." 

_Oh, so you did, so you did._ Such denial--it could not mean anything else. I leaned back in my chair and crossed my hands behind my head, rocking my foot, smiling from ear to ear. "And why not? Come, let's not beat about the bush; let's talk about these things using their real names. You yourself told me transference and sublimation could turn to a person's ruin in the end. Be free, you said. Be bold, you said. Well, I am being both, now. Tell me, how many of your clients want to fuck their parents?"

She hesitated for a while, her eyes flashing. I'd caught her, and it took several seconds for her to freeze her expression again, to assume professional distance. She sat down, pulling her skirt down just a little too vigorously. "It's not an uncommon fantasy, but often unconscious. In the average person, it can manifest itself as a number of neuroses, perversions, paraphilias."

I nodded and lit another cigarette, sensed myself larger, swelling with confidence while she shrunk in her seat, fidgeting with her nails, the verdigris flaking off them. I leaned forwards, the exact angle at which she would get the best view of my breasts. "Such as homosexuality, I'm told." 

She glanced at the clock and set her pen and paper aside. "Such impulses are characteristic of loss," she said matter-of-factly, "of trying to either replace the lost parent by imitating them, or taking the other parent's place, becoming the lover of the parent lost. But, Miss Barring, our time is up. If you wish to discuss these things later--"

"Have you ever tasted a pussy?"

She froze. Before she could answer, I had taken her by the wrist, my silver bracelet clicking against her turquoise one. I saw, felt the shiver that ran through her and drank it in, let it pool between my legs as heat. "I have," I purred.

She pulled her hand away, shaking from indignation. "As a matter of fact, I have, once. I didn't enjoy it."

I took one last drag off my cigarette, stumped it and let out a pitying croon. "Then you must have chosen the wrong kind of woman," I said, kicking my shoes off, opening my legs a little. "Was hers one of those bitter ones, fishy ones?" I said, full of sugary sweetness, yet with the swagger of an old playboy. I ran my toes up her leg, silk whispering against silk, and saw her nipples pointing through her blouse. She covered her face but did not move her legs at all, made no attempt to close them. 

A textbook case, I thought to myself, of the repressed homosexual urge. The more she wants it, the more she denies it. Oh, this was _beautiful,_ I thought; finally a chance to do what Torsten and Helena had done to me--to tear down someone's inhibitions, to give them the ravishment they'd always wanted, to reveal the true pervert within. _I'll make your dreams come true, my little dyke; you just wait and see._

I withdrew my foot and spread my legs a little, stroking my thighs, my fingertips dipping in between them. "I know mine is very sweet. Would you like to see it, Anita?" _To face that thing you really want? Are your dreams full of soft little pussies, Anita? Wet, sweet, hot pussies, all inviting your tongue?_

She tried to say something, but stayed still, clutching the arms of her chair. Yet she was leaning forwards, perched on the edge of the seat. She swallowed, her face entirely flushed, now, and I could smell her perfume of patchouli and musk. The perfumes of a whore, of a secret sister, and like a sister confiding in another I now spread my legs. I opened them wide, wider until my legs were draped over the arms of my chair. She gasped as I did so, and I laughed as I wondered whether it was at the realisation I had not worn panties or the fact that my pussy was shaven, bare. 

I ran my fingertips over my slit, the heat of it, already so swollen; I swore she must've been able to smell me. I was wet from arousal, from power, and slowly, I lifted a string of my sweetness from my pussy with my fingertip, tantalising her with it. "Would you like a taste?"

It was her apartment; there was nowhere she could run. Her eyes flashed with hatred, beautiful, beautiful hatred as she fell to her knees and between my legs. Clumsily, she kissed my pussy and whimpered, a pitiful little sound. 

I laughed and caressed her hair. "Go on. Indulge. No one is looking."

She whimpered again and kissed my slit, not knowing what to do. She reached within my folds with her tongue, tasting me, so hesitant, yet with obvious astonishment. 

"Tastes good, doesn't it?" I purred. "That's what you get when you shave it bare and if your Daddy feeds you lots of sweets."

She shook her head, hissing at me. "You're the filthiest little--God--"

"Says the dirty old woman with her mouth full of pussy." I wrapped my legs around her shoulders. "Go on. Lick."

She did, yet it was the act itself, the seducing of my analyst that gave me greater pleasure than her inexperienced fumblings did. I had to guide her head, her mouth, to help her find my clitoris; I knew I wouldn't be able to come this way and that I would need penetration. But the very idea of those verdigris claws inside of me made me shudder with disgust. I disguised this shudder as pleasure, found myself pretending an orgasm to please her, astonished that I would do such a thing. I had never done so for a man--if they had failed to satisfy me, I had told them so. Helena had usually been resourceful enough to bring me to orgasm with various tricks, various toys, and perhaps this was why Anita started to suddenly disgust me. I'd accomplished seduction, but I could not enjoy the sex itself, not if I was to be the dominant partner. 

And here, I would have to be that; I could now see that Anita was incapable of playing the leader when it came to sex. Even as I continued to play, pretend, moan into the ceiling, I cursed my stupidity: no matter how many times I tried to be the one in charge, the fact remained that sexually, I needed someone capable of _taking_ me, turning me inside out.

I missed Torsten, missed him so much I could've cried. One more week and he would reach this side of the Atlantic, one more week and we would never part again. Even as I spread Anita's legs to return the favour I tried to imagine Torsten, but it would have been easier had I been fucked by a man. This is what I disliked the most about typical female homosexuality, the _equality_ of it, the exact thing so many lesbians lauded it for. Being in debt to the other woman after she'd brought you off, having to assume the active role in turn for the sake of fairness. And all of this because of the simple biological difficulty of a woman achieving orgasm while she was on top! I resented Nature for that and for making me desire women nevertheless, resented having to play both parts when only one suited me. Whereas a man--or the rare sort of dominant female, like Helena--could easily achieve orgasm while I lay still, surrendered, enjoying the sensations of simply being fucked. Oh, for Torsten's cock, oh, for Helena's harness!

This was nothing like them; it revolted me. The hairiness, the smell of Anita's pussy--of old, dank sweat, traces of menstrual blood, and as I had feared, that very bitterness and fishiness that had turned her off women--I had to fight not to gag. No amount of soap could ever wash the odour off pubic hair, the very biological purpose of body hair being the transmission of scent. Natural or not, the smell now revolted me after what I had been accustomed to in my partners. This was so far from the smooth genitals of Torsten and Helena and Athena, their clean scents, their secretions always sweet and fresh, not having fermented in their underwear for days. I sobbed, but masked it as lust, thinking of this as a form of punishment, a penance: something to remember whenever I thought I no longer loved Torsten, something to remind me of the exact things he was and others were not. 

I sucked on Anita's clitoris and slipped two fingers inside her pussy, curling them with all my might, mechanically inducing an orgasm in her. She howled from the bottom of her lungs, her legs shaking around my head, thrusting her pussy into my face as she came. At last. She was still shaking when I withdrew and started to fix my clothes, my hair and my makeup in the mirror. She wanted to kiss me, to thank me, but I was already halfway out of the door. Escaping, escaping into the traffic, disappearing into the exhaust fumes and the noise. 

***

***

**Stockholm, March 3, 1940**

Little Empress, 

Your father longs for you. I could write ten pages on how much I miss the sight of you, the sound of your voice, the games we play--but first things first. You asked me about the finances. I regret to say that I still haven't been able to sell the apartment, but nearly everything else has been sold and we still have a fortune to retire on. I trust that the funds have been transferred to the American accounts safely. Don't bother to do any adding up--I kept a comfortable amount to myself, for reasons you will understand. One needs heavy-duty diversions at a time like this. Sweden might be the coolest country on a continent that's on fire, but it's still _dreadfully_ boring--to be honest, I would prefer the fire. 

The diversions have been too few, but last night, I had a most pleasant one. I have only just arrived home and had to pick up pen and paper immediately so that I could describe my experience to you in exact detail. 

Oh, yes, my love, it was one of _those_ adventures--and it didn't start in an establishment of ill repute, either, but at one of those dreary society parties. 

His name was Robert--a Scotsman, he told me, although at first I had suspected he was another Eastern European Jew on the run. (The Old Town has been flooded with them lately--the amount of circumcised cocks I've seen these past few months you wouldn't believe. Would you believe my taste for the exotic has been _dulled_ after Stockholm became a haven for refugees?) He was a sophisticated, bespectacled young man with an intellectual air about him, yet underneath those glasses his features were those of a Classical boy-beauty--oh, I could smell a faggot a _mile_ away. In body, he was closer to myself than to the type I usually prefer: he was almost as thin as I was, even boyish for his years, which I approximated somewhere on either side of thirty.

I first glimpsed him in the toilets, trying to tame his fair, curly hair with rather a poor choice of wax--he was one hell of a dancer and those curls had come loose after he'd been giving the ladies a spin. I stood at the urinal and saw he was looking at my cock through the mirror, thinking I hadn't noticed. I deliberately slowed down the stream of piss, held my cock lightly in my open palm in a gesture of offering, subtly manipulating him into giving himself away. 

And he did. Quickly, he turned and stared at his tin of wax like it was some highly fascinating ancient artifact. 

I buttoned up, satisfied. "I've got something here that you'll like," I purred, moving a little too close to him. His pupils were wide; he trembled--if you had only seen the look on his face as I reached into my pocket and offered him my pomade! He looked disappointed, even, flushed a little as he accepted it. He mumbled his thanks and the way he behaved--so innocent, so confused--made me sure he must have been a complete virgin with men, completely repressed. 

I set out to undo that. I invited him to my table and bought him a few drinks. Not too much, of course; I wanted him to remember everything about this night. Therefore, I used my face and my hands to drug him; people often underestimate the length and depth of a meaningful glance, the way one can guide another person's eyes with deft movements of one's hands. You know these movements well from what I have taught you--the arc of the hand that holds the cigarette, the exact angle from which to gaze at someone to make them aware of their own bodies, the ways to sit so that they will be aware of yours. The hand that rests casually near the groin, imitating the line of the penis or the vulva, the open-mouthed ways of drinking and smoking that arouse subconscious thoughts of fellatio. 

And all the while, we carried on a conversation like two gentlemen, even as his eyes burned, even as he sweated visibly. He was, indeed, an archaeologist--I laughed and told him about the vision I had had of him with his tin of wax. He laughed with me and cast his eyes down so demurely it was as if I was talking to a young girl; my cock pulsed at the sight. Such large blue eyes he had, almost like ours, only marred by those ridiculous spectacles. Already I was wondering what those eyes would look like when he knelt at my feet; if they would water when I pushed my cock into his mouth.

From time to time he was interrupted by women. He was a hit with the ladies, beautiful and intelligent as he was, but after a while, he began to spurn their offers, claiming he was too tired to dance. He did not seem tired at all, no; I'd say he was rather animated as he talked to me, so I swelled not only with lust but with pride. Whether he was fully conscious of it or not, he was _mine._ The thrill of this made me even pay attention to his dry talks of rocks and sediments and pottery shards. After a while, however, he apologised, clearly used to people finding these lectures boring.

"I'm sorry. Terrible habit. One gets carried away, you see. My wife says I should talk about life and the living, not just skeletons. She believes we only have one life and that we shouldn't waste it on thinking about the dead."

I leaned back and smoked lazily. "She is a very smart woman."

"She is, she is," he said, polishing his spectacles with his handkerchief. I saw his eyes--how beautiful they were now, free of their confinement!--light up with warmth. "She's a psychoanalyst, you see." 

Inside, I scoffed. Everyone thinks himself an analyst these days. Any fool can now think they are wise, offering sage advice to others when their own lives are a mess. But I saw this topic could turn out very fruitful indeed. For is psychoanalysis not obsessed with sex? Now, _that_ is my forte. 

"Tell me something," I ventured. "It's something I've been wondering about and have been meaning to ask someone who knows their Freud."

He laughed nervously and pushed his spectacles back on his nose. "I'm no expert."

"You sleep with Freud beside you, don't you?"

He burst into laughter, albeit a very short one. I could hear a tinge of bitterness in his voice--hell, the people I had seen analysed had only been made more neurotic, more anxious about everything because of it. They had started to live inside the head so much that they had forgotten the body, and that's what I presumed was the case with Robert as well. This man had never lived out his desires; perhaps his wife was too nervous to enjoy sex as well, thinking about it instead of just giving herself over to furious fucking. 

"What was the question again?" Robert said, busying himself by digging out a cigarette. 

I leaned over to light it for him, smiling the same way I would do with a lady, and he couldn't have missed the meaning of the gesture. "There's something Baudelaire said..." I began.

"I'm afraid I'm not much of a poet."

"But you _are_ in love with an intelligent woman, are you not? Baudelaire used to say that there was something perverse in that. That loving an intelligent woman was the pleasure of the pederast."

His eyes widened in shock. "I don't think that's a very gentlemanly thing to say. Is that what you really believe about women?"

"I didn't say I shared his belief. But what would your Freud say about that thought? What with the liberated women of today becoming more and more like men in every way, does it not follow from that that the modern man--if he is to keep up with the ladies--should in turn become a little _homosexual?_ "

I let that last word hang in the air between us and blew the most perfect of smoke rings around it, an open, shimmering _hole._

He stared at me and gawped, tried to speak, but nothing would come out. Instead, he excused himself and headed for the toilets. Yet even as he rose, I saw he was hunched over a little, trying to disguise an erection in the looseness of his trousers. 

I followed him.

Precisely thirty-four seconds later, I slammed him up against the wall of a cubicle and fucked his mouth with my tongue. "God help me," I heard him whisper as I dropped to my knees, his hand going to his chest in the reflex of the Catholic trying to cross himself. But the Devil won: he had Torsten Barring on his side, didn't he? Soon Robert's cock swelled in my mouth, tasting of sperm, pussy, piss. I fancied I could even smell old books on his trousers; sand, ink. I chuckled around his cock and looked up at him, steadied his trembling hips with my hands. He was gasping, closing his eyes, even covered his face with his hand! Oh, this was brilliant; I felt like a medieval incubus seducing a clergyman, out to suck his sperm into myself so I could spit it inside nuns later. 

That was the precise moment I stopped. I got to my feet and wiped my mouth. "I'm going to call a taxi. If you want more, you can get it at my apartment." I threw my business card on the floor. "Your choice."

I left him there, his cock wet and hard, his spectacles halfway down his nose, his mouth gaping open wide.

I wasn't even out of the restaurant door when he ambushed me, joining me in the coat room. He still couldn't speak, but stepped into my taxi and followed me home. I regretted having got rid of our chauffeur--remember old Bertil, always so good at the whole actively-not-listening business? Unfortunately, the presence of an ordinary taxi driver forced me to remain chaste throughout the ride home. 

Poor Robert--or, "Please, Robbie, everyone calls me Robbie," he mumbled as I shoved him into the elevator--the boy was out of his mind. Yes, in my mind I called him a boy; he seemed so young, so fragile, tiptoeing as he reached up to plant a kiss on my mouth. I almost felt sorry for him, can you imagine? But that's part of the fun in seducing innocents: to take one last look at what you will soon have spoiled, having lured the virgin to your lair. To bask in the cocaine euphoria of your own beastliness, ruthlessness.

"Is it your first time?" I asked as I turned the key in the lock. I knew the answer, of course, but wanted to give him the chance to say something, to justify this to himself.

"Yes," he said, almost in tears as I pushed his coat off his shoulders, "yes," as I took his mouth with a kiss. 

"Then let me make it good for you." 

And I did: I drew out that anticipation for both of us, relishing his purity for as long as I could. I led him to my bedroom and stripped him slowly, with a tenderness that mimicked love. I made my gestures deliberately feminine, adoring at times; for the rest of the time, I made sure he remembered my true sex by the force with which I claimed his mouth again and again, crushed his body against mine. An electric charge went through me as he fumbled with my buttons, never having undressed a man before. And even in the half-light, he stared at me, at the shape of my body, at my erection courting his. I had not lit a single lamp; the moon was full and its light was magnified by the snow, so that the entire room was lit with blue and white. Blue and white, the curves of his shoulders and chest, the dark peaks of his nipples. Blue and white, the planes of his stomach, quivering as I laid him down and kissed his cock. 

He was afraid, deathly afraid even as I sucked him, his buttocks clenching as I cupped them. "What's the matter?" I asked in my sweetest voice. "Do you think I'm going to hurt you?"

"Yes," he rasped, then bit his lip as he realised how blunt he had been. 

"Then why did you come?" I asked, spread his legs and laid myself down on top of him. "Why did you come?" I asked again and rubbed my cock against his, trapping them both between our bellies. When he still refused to answer, I pinned his wrists down upon the pillows and stared into his eyes. "Is it that no one has hurt you the right way yet, Robbie? And you're _curious?"_

His eyes flickered; his throat bobbed and with a low moan, he kissed me. He could not say "Yes," but it was there in his kiss; it was there in the way he wrapped his legs around me, the way he lifted his hips, offered his ass in sacrifice. Glorious, glorious sacrifice; oh, he was beautiful.

It was then that I took the glycerine and slicked up his cock. "I'm going to make you wait for it," I said, deliberately cruel, crooning in his ear as I fucked him with my fist. "I'm going to make you ask for that pain, Robbie dearest."

Of course, he whimpered; I like it when a victim obeys his cue. Swiftly, I straddled him and sat down on his cock. Even when he had barely entered me, he howled, howled as my ass swallowed him, as I clenched in utter delight around him. I pinned him down again and took him by force, each one of his howls reverberating through my body as I forced myself down on his cock. Such a beautiful, thick cock, never having had an ass squeeze around it before, far tighter than a pussy ever could. 

"Do you like that?" I asked and rolled my hips.

"Please, God, please, please--"

"Hmm?" I chuckled in his ear and kissed it, then purred in the other. "I think God has turned a blind eye." And at that, I bit him on the neck, giving him that pain he had so desired. He howled, wailed until my ears hurt and there, there, he came inside of me, thick, gorgeous blasts of sperm leaking out of my ass, down his cock, down his balls. So quick, just as I had predicted, leaving him soft and vulnerable in my hands. I had reached that moment, the headiest moment of seduction where I had plunged someone into such a state they would let me do anything to them.

"You are a man well-versed in history, Robbie," I murmured, rolling my hips, fucking him with my ass as he panted underneath me. "Now what do you remember of the woodcuts depicting witches' sabbaths? How the witches would swear allegiance to the Devil?"

He looked at me, baffled, still gasping for breath, embarrassed from his premature ejaculation. "What does that got to do with--"

I decided to refresh his memory and turned around, presenting him with my ass, with his warm come now sluicing out of my hole. _"Osculum infame."_

 _The kiss of infamy._ Before he could protest, I sat on his mouth, smearing it with my ass. He _screamed,_ screamed louder as I took his cock into my mouth and sucked it. And oh, oh--would you believe it?--he stuck his tongue out and _lapped_ at me, sucked my asshole, sobbing eagerly in his damnation. I moaned, my cock jerking against my belly, and I lifted his hips high, high so that I could bury my face in his ass in turn. He screamed again as I began to lick, now realising the extent of the pleasure he was giving me; only I turned those screams into coughs as I began to shit his come into his mouth. 

He pulled back, gasping, gagging in disgust; I merely turned him onto his side and attacked his ass once more. I didn't even know if he was clean and I didn't care--in fact, the likelihood that he wasn't was what now made me reel in sickening excitement. A few crumbs of shit weren't going to stop me, oh, no; I laughed into his ass, a laughter wicked, dark. I clawed his buttocks apart and found bliss as I dipped my tongue into his hole, feasting upon his delicious, musty, virgin taste. I paused for breath and saw he had covered his face with his arm again, his sobs now so loud I thought he must have been crying; it was hard to see.

I licked my lips and laughed. "Shh, Robbie, don't cry. Don't cry. I said I was going to make it good for you, remember? So good." I turned him to lie down on his face so that he wouldn't have to look at me, so that he would be forced into experiencing only the sensations I was now giving him. I massaged his hole with my thumbs and blew on it, my own cock aching to have that muscle spasm around itself. "I am a man of my word, Robbie; I will make it hurt good, too, if you only ask me nicely."

He shuddered on the bed, and I could hear the sheets rustling as he squeezed them in his fists. I licked his hole again and I wished you were here, Laura, wished you were here to taste his cock as I tasted his ass. Are you imagining it, my little queen? Are you? Kneeling in front of him, sucking Daddy's juices off his cock? Are you reading this with your hand in your panties, playing with your little pussy? Because that's what I thought of at that moment, of how much you would have relished it all. The taste and feel of the ass, loving it as much as I do, oh--I pushed my finger inside of him, that thrill of the moment when you don't know if you will hit a tail of shit or not, and so perversely, I almost wanted to--but he was clean. Dry, hot, but clean, making the smallest of sounds as his muscles clenched around my finger, as I tugged him open a little.

So hot, so delicious; I had to have more. I pulled my finger out and wet it with my lips, sucking his taste off it, now richer, deeper, sweeter. I had seen him use saccharine in his coffee--he wasn't a particularly vain sort, or the type that would've needed to watch his figure, so I had come to the conclusion he must have been diabetic. Perhaps that explained it? The sweetness remaining undigested, turning his ass as sweet as a pussy, and I know you will laugh, but that's what it reminded me of. You won't be laughing when I try it on you, that's for sure; if this letter reaches you before I do, start taking saccharine _now._ Just as I will, to offer you the same taste in turn. How in the hell had I not discovered this before? The taste was _exquisite._ I growled and licked him again, again, then pushed two fingers in with my spit. His noise was louder, this time. 

"Does that hurt?" I asked.

"Yes--" and he meant to say something else, but hesitated.

I nodded, laughed a little, tugged at his hole. "But it's a good pain, isn't it? The sort you wanted?"

"Yes," he whimpered.

I kissed his buttock. "Then let me give you some more." 

I could have used the glycerine now, but didn't; Robbie wanted to hurt and I gave him that. Perhaps it satisfied his Catholic guilt; perhaps he needed to feel like he was paying a high price for--this! The greatest pleasure a man could experience! Aren't the Christians a contrary lot? Yet I gave him the sexual martyrdom he wanted, playing the wicked emperor to fulfill his perversions. Perhaps he had known of me after all, had heard of Heliogabalus, had wanted to be sacrificed upon the arena of my bed. And for that, I spat into his ass, pulled it open, pulled and tugged so hard he was stiff from being overwhelmed so, trembling. Yet when he lifted his hips, I could see his cock had not grown soft at all, no; it was gleaming, dripping from his joy at his ruin.

"Take the glycerine from the bedside table. That's it. I want to see you pour some here, right on my fingers."

I could only hear his breathing in the dark, the sound of him opening the bottle. My cock bobbed as the cool liquid hit my fingertips, and I couldn't not hiss from pleasure as I pushed the glycerine inside his ass, rolling my fingers, feeling the walls of his flesh. "That's enough. Put the bottle away," I said, starting to fuck him slowly with my fingers. I spent long, quiet moments stretching him, stroking him on the inside until he finally started to relax, to sink into the bed. Only then did I curl my fingers a little, press on his prostate again, again. He let out an astonished moan, completely uncontrolled, suffocating the end of it into the bedsheets. 

"Good boy, good boy, good boy," I crooned, knowing that even if Robbie were to never touch a man again, he would still be hungering for this touch for the rest of his life. He could return to his wife, return to his safe heterosexuality, but in his sleep, he would still remember this, the moment of his awakening. He would remember this touch, remember _me;_ remember another man inside his body. Possessing him, taking him, teaching him, the _erastes_ to his _eromenos_. 

I fucked him a little faster so that my fingers made wet noises against his ass, two inside, two slapping against his perineum. "Do you want my cock, Robbie?"

"Yes," he said, now unhesitant, his voice thick from pleasure. 

"That's good to hear." I took my hand out and slicked myself with it, pressing him into the mattress, guiding my cock against his ass. I brushed wet hair from his ear and kissed it. "I should like to hear it again. What do you want me to do, Robbie?"

He went stiff and stilled; yet now he was drunk, so drunk from pleasure I could hear something in him give, give completely as he answered me. "Fuck me," he slurred; debauched, damned. "Please, fuck me."

"Now, what kind of a boy would say a thing like that?" I tutted in a mock-appalled voice, pressing my cock deeper, struggling to stay still as his little hole sucked around the head of my cock, as if wanting to draw me inside of his body. "What kind of a boy are you, Robbie? You're not a little _faggot,_ are you?"

He sobbed, but now from ecstasy, spasming underneath me as I dipped the head of my cock inside, the clutch of his muscles tight and sweet. Over and over he clenched, cold sweat breaking upon his skin as his nervous system fought my invasion, but I was stronger, as I always am. "There, what kind of an ass sucks on a man's cock like that? Like a little mouth, hungry for a big drink of sperm? Tell me, Robbie, tell me--what kind of a boy are you?"

"A faggot," he cried, "I'm a faggot, oh, God, I want it, please, please, I want it, I want it--"

"You want my cock in your ass?" I asked, pulling back a little before I pushed even deeper. The head of my cock slipped past the tightest part and he _convulsed,_ gasped, the cold sweat now pooling in the dip of his spine.

"Yes," he cried still, "Yes-s-s-," that hiss breaking into stutters as I pulled back and thrust in again, fucking his little hole open, torturing the muscles with the head of my cock. 

"Does it hurt? Do you want me to hurt you some more?"

"Please," and his voice was softer, now, his breathing steadier, his hips a little looser. The pain had obviously started to fade, and we couldn't have that. I spat on my cock to slicken it even more, then pulled back completely and thrust so deep inside I hurt myself with the strength of the thrust--but the bigger blow was to his guts. And the noise he made, Laura, the noise! It was so wounded, so childlike it was beautiful, and again I thought of you. I even wondered if he had wet the bed, like some male virgins do when penetrated with a cock the size of mine. So I groped around for his cock and found it wet, but with the slickness of pre-ejaculate, the remains of glycerine. It was fat in my hand, fat and warm, and like a natural, Robbie arched his back, moving a little of his own volition, now.

I kissed his shoulder and chuckled in his ear. "It doesn't hurt so much now, does it?" 

"No," he said, and for the first time, he turned around and offered his mouth for a kiss. Emboldened by the pleasure I was giving him, he moaned a little, slightly exhibitionist, even; showing me how much he was enjoying it. 

"Good boy," I chuckled, now drunk from the pleasure his ass was giving me, too. "I might give you more pain later, if you want it. But now, I want you to show me more. Show me how it feels when I fuck you," I said, licking his mouth. "Move your ass for me; make noise for me."

"Yes, sir," he whispered.

My cock leapt inside of him; I rolled my hips and groaned. "Say that again."

"Yes, _sir._ " 

For a brief moment I lost control, yielding it to my hips instead. I fucked him so hard my back creaked, fucked those noises and cries of "sir" straight out of his mouth, pushed them out through his guts. I spat on my hand and rolled it around his cock, fucked him so brutally I lifted his hips completely off the bed so that he lay face down, ass up in front of me. "Fuck--!" I barked again and again as I watched my cock gleam in the moonlight, covered in glycerine and the juices of his hole, every heavy inch of it gliding in and out of his ass.

"You're a born little whore, that's what you are," I growled, smacking his ass. "Tell me how it feels. Tell me how it feels when I fuck your ass."

"So good, _fuck,_ so good," he hissed into the pillow. 

"Big enough for you?"

"Yes! It's so good, oh, so good, please don't stop, please, sir--"

I keened, tossing my head to throw loose strands of hair off my face. That didn't work, so I took my hand off his cock and wiped the hair off my face with it, inhaling, licking his taste off my palm. "Fuck. Touch your cock, touch it. Fuck your hand; do it."

He moaned and did as he was told; now I could clasp his hips and straddle them with my thighs on either side of his ass, sink my cock so deep my balls pressed against his perineum. He groaned so deep from his throat he sounded more bull than man; such a strange sound for a man so slight. But by that noise, I knew I had hit just the right spot, so I pulled back a little and slammed in again. He wailed and worked his hand on his cock so fast I could hear its slick sounds; his ass loosened so much from pleasure that I knew he was close. 

I grabbed him by the hair and twisted his head up, fucking him slowly, with thrusts so savage and so deep he was gulping for air. His ass made farting noises around my cock; he cried "Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God," trembling, lost in his debauching, gone. 

I just shook his head by the hair. "Come on my cock. Give me a good squeeze, that's it, squeeze me with that dirty little hole, smear it, _smear_ it." 

He jerked underneath me once, twice, coiled, tense, so near, so near. It was then that I threw all of my weight into my thrusts and bit into the nape of his neck, so hard I could feel his skin give. His scream made my eyes flash white, his ass spasming, slurping around my cock as he came, and the disgusting sound of it was enough to make me come undone. Groaning deep in my chest, I spat his blood out of my mouth and shot my come inside his guts, so huge, so voluminous a load that I was laughing in disbelief as the orgasm never seemed to end. In turn, Robbie's ass kept spasming, sucking my sperm out, greedily swallowing every blast as he mewled underneath me. He kept shuddering and writhing, dancing upon my cock and his ass made noises again, my come bursting out of it in rivulets as he clenched over and over, dribbling down my balls. 

When his pleasure finally seemed to recede a little, his whimpers turned into those of shame. They became even louder as I pulled out and he farted the rest of my come out by accident, so unused to his ass being loosened like this.

"Dirty boy," I tutted with a smile, and to his beautiful, magnificent shock, I scooped up my sperm from his hole and fed it to him with my fingers. The way he looked into my eyes, adoring, surrendered to his corruption--oh, you should have seen it! It aroused me so that a final little trickle of come spurted out of my cock as I took in his submission, so beautiful, so complete. We lay there side by side for long moments, he feasting upon my fingers, warm and filthy in the afterglow.

***

It was a pleasant surprise to wake up next to him in the morning. And you know how I am in the habit of kicking them out as soon as the sex is over. But perhaps this happened because for Robbie and I, the sex was far from over. In the gold and cream of the morning light, I again realised I must have been seeking a Laura in him--his blond hair all tousled, his eyes so wide, begging for me to initiate him into further sins.

And as my bladder was full, how could I not think of you? Yet, Robbie could never have served me the way you do, and I kept my promise: I wanted to save that particular pleasure only for you. Therefore, I made my way to the bathroom and used the toilet instead. I was already aroused from Robbie's kisses, so I rinsed myself swiftly before returning to bed. It was cold as hell in the bedroom; quickly, I slipped underneath the covers and shivered in Robbie's embrace. 

Robbie kissed me and rubbed warmth into my hands, his eyes staring without focus, softer now that he didn't have his glasses on. I believe the boy might have been falling in love with me a little; I stretched in his arms and basked in his adoration. This was completely different from our play last night; we kissed lazily, tasting each other for long moments, limbs wrapped around one another. He seemed slightly hesitant, but I took his hands, his mouth and guided them to where they would bring me the most pleasure. Oh, the pride with which he looked up at me when he took my cock into his mouth! I could feel his own cock jerking against my leg as I stroked his face and called him a good boy. 

Yet there was something else I wanted even more. I pulled him to lie on top of me and licked his mouth, sinking my fingers into his hair. "You didn't fuck me for very long last night," I scolded him, nipping at his lips, rubbing our cocks together lazily. "Would you like to try and do it properly this time?"

He raised his eyebrow and laughed, now warmed by the challenge. "I'd love to."

"Then, open me," I hissed, pushing him down by the shoulders, lifting my legs and spreading my buttocks.

His eyes widened, but he tried to mask his surprise as he laid himself down between my legs. I felt my ass clenching, enjoyed being able to shock him with my body this way. I was sure he had never seen a shaven man before, let alone a hole like mine. I knew how raised the rim was, how red--I had been using my toys every night ever since you went away, had kept myself in training. I stroked my hole with my fingertips, rubbing it, lust coiling in my belly, heavy and sweet. "That's what your ass will look like, too, once you get used to it," I murmured. 

He ran his fingertips over my hole, quiet, with a scientist's fascination. "Doesn't it hurt?"

"No." I shook my head. "It only enhances the pleasure. Makes you more aware of your ass, of what you've been doing with it," I leered. "Ever wondered why a faggot walks like a woman?" I dipped two fingertips inside my ass and spread it for him, spread it, hissing through my teeth in delight. "It's because his ass has become a little _pussy._ "

There, there, the shock: that little word never fails to make an impact. He looked at me aghast, not sure if I was joking, if he should laugh or not. He swallowed, then looked at my ass again, and I saw him think of the connotations, the absurdity of my calling it a pussy. _You have a long way to go, my boy,_ I thought; this being his first taste of true sexual power at its purest. The power of libido, of the life force itself, something that always expanded explosively beyond the biological sex, tore through all categories and limitations as it went. Each fairy, each dyke, each true libertine knew of this transcending, transforming quality the erotic possessed, and I sought to awaken this knowledge in him as well. 

I pulled my fingers out and relaxed a little. "Would you like to kiss it?" I asked in my sweetest voice. "I just washed it, too." 

Last night, he had been drunk; I had forced my ass upon him. He hesitated a little, hovering, tense. He leaned closer and I spread my hole for him; again, it clenched a little as I felt his breathing on my wet flesh. He swallowed. I was about to encourage him with more words, but then he was upon me: he squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his mouth to my ass, hard, his lips closed, as if defying--or punishing--himself. But the ululating whimper he let out, vibrating straight into my ass--oh! I moaned and clutched at his head with my hands, urging him to continue. And there it came, the first, tentative lick, then the second: another whimper as he lapped at my hole, tasting it, pushing his tongue inside of me. Feverish, now, he spread my ass, staring at it with an expression that looked like anger: hatred at himself for loving this, perhaps? It wasn't the first time I'd seen it on a man. 

"Spit on it," I leered, stroking my cock. "Go on."

He loved that; it allowed him to insult me, to punish me for seducing him by inflicting such a gesture on my ass. So much like the priest who demonises woman yet falls for whores over and over, he spat on my ass again, then sunk his tongue inside me once more. And now he had reached a state that same clergyman would have interpreted as satanic possession: he fucked my ass with his tongue, tried to push it inside as deep as he could, moaning, snorting, huffing into me angrily. And it felt fantastic, fantastic; each lick a flicker of heat through my guts, my hips opening themselves like a woman's would, hungry for a fat prick. I was ready, more than ready, but I wanted to indulge him, to truly smother him in the pleasures of the ass.

So I reached for the glycerine. "Give me your hand," I hissed, pouring the clear fluid over his fingertips. "Now, stretch me." With trembling, wet hands I spread my ass again. "Give me two."

He inserted them far too swiftly and I gasped, panting, staring at the ceiling. "Slowly," I growled, but to my surprise, he didn't listen. I looked down at him and his face was still furious; he kept pushing his fingers in roughly, fucking me with them, stabbing them inside of me. He was chastising me, now, the monk flagellating the temptress. I had _not_ been expecting that. My cock spurted a little; I found myself howling. 

"Fuck," I moaned out loud, lifting my legs, urging him on. "Give me more. Hook them, fuck; hook them, drag them--"

I didn't know if he used three or four fingers, but I didn't care: inexperienced, clumsy, he curled them far too hard, but that just added to the thrill of it, the violence of it. Feverish, I fucked him right back, rocking my hips on his hand, stuttering a stream of profanities into the ceiling. "Fuck me," I snapped, "Fuck me."

He tilted his head, his face so different now, some mad new light gleaming in his eyes. He seemed much older, more wicked; even his cock an angry red, a thick and hard threat between his legs. He curled his fingers again and smiled. "Want to be fucked, do you, _faggot?"_

I wailed. In that moment, I _adored him._ "Yes," I moaned, my own cock so wet it slid back and forth on my belly. "Please, Robbie. Fuck me."

He threw himself upon me, far too fast, far too hard: he crushed the air out of my lungs with his weight, thrusting his cock inside without any teasing whatsoever. It sent a cold jolt of nausea through my guts, my stomach flipping; even as I sobbed in his ear I relished the pain, relished my violation--was he not fucking my ass _as one fucks a pussy?_ As he started to thrust, I bent double from the pain at first, stiffening, unable to breathe. How quickly this had happened! How quickly we had gone from sweet kisses that seemed like love to an act more akin to hate. He fucked me so hard my eyes rolled back in my head; my breathing came in shallow stutters. Yet all throughout this, my cock had remained hard. I wanted to clasp it, wanted to stroke it, but he pounded into me with such force I couldn't even reach for it. All I could do was lie there, hold my ass open for him, let him brutalise me, watch as his cock sank inside. 

Something in me snapped; I wanted to drown him in insults, whip him into even greater heights of violence. "Do you like what you see?" I gasped. "Like watching your faggot's cock sinking into another man's ass?" Finally, I managed to grab my cock and stroke it, still spreading my buttocks with my other hand. "Does it gape, Robbie? Is it dirty? All dirty and wet and tighter than a girl's pussy could ever be?" 

He slapped me, like one slaps a woman, and I screamed, my balls jumping. I nearly came there and then, spurting pre-ejaculate over my knuckles, staring furiously up at him. " _Fuck me,_ you fucking _fairy._ Fuck me. Shoot it in my ass."

"You fucking _bitch,_ " he snarled--my hips jerked up and I was close, so close. With a roar, he pulled my legs over his shoulders and bent me completely in half; I howled as he slammed his hips into me, his balls slapping against my ass. My knuckles burned against his stomach as I stroked myself, my ass loosening, spasming around him, opening itself wide at the threshold of orgasm. Growling in rage, he grabbed my head and kissed me so hard our teeth clashed. And there it was: I howled around his tongue, convulsed around his cock as a full-body orgasm overtook me, far more intense than the one I'd had last night. The orgasm only penetration could give me, a series of quicksilver waves within my guts, only then the ejaculations, the endless ejaculations, wetting my entire stomach. My hand slipped on my cock and I wailed, loving how he wrested control from me, each one of his thrusts forcing another spurt out of my cock. Like a woman, I came on and on, perhaps came twice in a row, it was hard to tell; that's how long it lasted. 

Now it was my ass that was making noises; now it was he who was trembling on top of me. He couldn't hold himself up any longer, only spread my legs on either side of his hips and laid himself down on top of me. There, he slowed down, his face contorted, sobbing as he moved on top of me. He looked confused, as if he had trouble reaching climax this way. He had an embarrassed, boyish look on his face; he even glanced down at himself in worry. The man who had been so ravishing me was gone; again, I was being made love to by a youth. He looked sorry, even; as if he had just come out of a drunken mania and only now realised what he'd done. 

So I wrapped my legs around him and pulled him into a kiss. "Let me help with that."

"How?"

I lifted my legs and bent myself double again. "Dip it into my mouth," I said, the thrill of it making my cock twitch again. "Then my ass again, then my mouth. See which one makes you come first."

Oh, the noise he made at that! He pulled out, shaking all over from exertion, unable to stop stroking his cock before he put it to my lips. I swallowed it eagerly, not having had the chance to do this with a real cock in months. The taste I loved the most in the world; my ass darker in taste than his, yet cleaner. There was a thin white ring of foam around his cock, mid-shaft, and in the warm, dim light of the bedroom, I could not tell how clean it was. This, in my current state, aroused me beyond measure. I wanted to taste it, taste all the filth it promised, but his cock was too big; the ring was just out of reach for my lips and my tongue. I moaned miserably as he withdrew, but oh, the taste of my ass on my tongue while I am being fucked--there is nothing like it in the world, nothing. I licked my lips, relishing each drop, small drops of sperm still dripping out of my cock as Robbie continued to fuck me. 

"God," he said and shook his head. "You filthy bastard," he groaned, disbelieving. 

I laughed and watched that white ring move along the shaft of his cock, my entire being now focused on it, on how it would taste in my mouth. "Give me more." 

He gulped in air. "I'm going to come, I--"

"Then come in my mouth," I moaned, "Let me taste my _shit._ "

He howled, nearly falling over as he bent over me. I swatted his hands away before he could touch his cock, before he could ruin it, and grabbed his hips. I stuck my tongue out as far as I could and swallowed his cock, swallowed it until I choked, sucking with my lips, the tip of my tongue pressing into his balls. And there, as he came undone, there, I could taste myself: such a rich taste, so deep, so dank, so salty-sweet. My ass, my ass. I shuddered and pulled back so that I could scream, so that I could taste his sperm, too, as it spurted into my mouth. I let him fuck my face, my throat, slurping noisily around him, drooling, sperm and spit dripping in strings onto my chest. But underneath all that, the taste of ass, the taste of sweet, foaming filth. I swooned, dizzy from lack of oxygen, fulfillment. Even as we lounged back on the bed, I nuzzled his groin, sucked his cock, let it soften in my mouth. 

He was speechless for a long while until I gathered him into my arms and kissed him, sharing our mixed tastes with him. He made no protest and kissed me back lazily, again shaking his head. I lay there and fancied myself the provider of a public service, offering him a liberation greater than psychoanalysis could ever accomplish. What's the point of going through all your repressed desires if you are never going to act them out? What I was doing was far more valuable--I didn't deal in words, but _experience_. 

And for this, my little _eromenos_ was grateful, oh, yes. Even as I escorted him to his apartment, he went down on his knees in the stairwell and sucked me. In broad daylight, could you imagine? He'd become like us already, initiated into sin by my hand, and I knew this neophyte would go far. The sun shining through the skylight glittered upon his golden hair, the wetness of his mouth as he licked my sperm from his lips, smiling with so much satisfaction and gratitude it would have broken my heart had I had one. Another one I'd got to stray from the flock, I thought, and made another tick in the Devil's ledger.

And here I am, sitting with a massive erection, Laura, massive--but before I go and take care of it, I am sending you my love. Don't forget what I said about the saccharine, will you? And remember, no playing with your ass until I'm there; let it tighten for me, become sweet for me. I will make it worth the wait, I promise. And now, I shall withdraw and think of what I'm going to do to you when I arrive, my beloved daughter. I'll leave it to your imagination for now--I'm sure it can come up with all kinds of delicious visions. 

Not long, now, my sweet little Laura.

With love,

Your Daddy.

***

Oh, the bastard. The complete and utter bastard. I laughed dryly to myself--that both of us should have simultaneously set out to seduce the repressed! It would not have surprised me if he had been sucking his juices off Robbie's cock and exploding in ecstasy the very moment I had been trying not to gag from Anita's taste. I burned from jealousy, but not from his seducing of others, but because he was better at it than I was. What gave him the right to succeed where I had failed? "Bastard," I mumbled still, even as I let go of the letter, leaned back on the sofa and slipped my hand into my panties. 

I had been wet from the moment he had mentioned Robbie staring at his cock in the toilets: I knew I would not last long, the letter itself having drawn out my arousal like a long, slow fuck. And yet the most arousing thing about it all was the astonishing similarity between our ways of thinking, our ways of living, our perversions. We were more like sister and brother than uncle and niece, father and daughter, I sometimes thought. Identical twins in mind, in spirit, if not in body. The narcissistic delight each of us took in watching the other at play was one of the major flavours, moods, colours of our relationship, permeating it on all levels. 

I could taste Torsten's ass in my mouth as I pulled back the hood of my clitoris, trying to hold back orgasm. My pussy pulsed; my thighs shook, yet I waited, waited. He had told me to think of what he would do when he arrived--very well. That immediately led my thoughts to taxis, and what he had said of nosy drivers. But what if he should take that, as he took everything that blocked him sexually, as a challenge? What if he would pretend he had no money to pay the driver, lifted up my skirt and offered his daughter as payment? 

My pussy clenched again; I kept my breathing shallow, knowing that with the next deep breath I would be gone. Groaning, I turned around on the sofa, wet two fingers of my other hand in my pussy and pushed them inside my ass, the shock pulling me back from the brink for a moment. I had kept my promise to him partially at least and had not put anything bigger in my ass, nothing as wide as a cock. But at times like these, when I grew this overheated, I had to do something like this or combust from sheer frustration. I imagined the sofa to be the cramped backseat of a taxi, the fingers in my ass the taxi driver's cock, the upholstery the fabric of Torsten's suit. 

_"There you are, there you are,"_ I could hear him crooning in my ear as he guided the driver's cock into my mouth, and I came so hard I nearly fell off the sofa. I howled, hooked my fingers as I imagined him tasting the driver's cock from my ass in turn, felt his gloved hand on my pussy, heard his soft chuckle of delight.

_Bastard._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> During this period, the words "homosexual" and "lesbian" were used of anyone with any same-sex tendencies no matter where they'd be on the Kinsey scale now. The modern meaning of "bisexual" as "someone attracted to both sexes" instead of "hermaphrodite" was only slowly starting to emerge and wasn't in wide use yet.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A standalone, worksafeish illustration (which does, however, fit the mood of their reunion in this chapter) can be found [here.](http://aikainkauna.tumblr.com/post/107426238473/so-laura-torsten-said-leaning-against-the-arm)

It was a cold, windy morning, yet I had made an effort for his sake and mine. I was freezing in my winter coat; underneath, I wore only a jacket and a blouse, a short pleated skirt and white knee-high socks. The very picture of the little girl looking for her father; one of the harbour guards mistook me for a schoolgirl and even offered to escort me. I acquiesced, more amused than anything else.

Customs and Immigration were crowded as usual: I knew a man of Torsten's wealth would be granted a speedier passage, yet it still took over an hour from the ship's arrival until I finally saw him emerge through the doorway. I had thought to tease him, had thought to flash him my legs, to seduce him straight away, but simply seeing him was enough to move me to tears. We had only been parted for a few months, yet he still looked somehow older, his face more deeply lined under the shadow of his fedora. Yet he still walked like an emperor, tall and lean underneath the dark coat he had slung over his shoulders. When he noticed me, he flung away his cigarette, and the age that had so weighed upon him melted off him completely: his face lit up with a broad smile, showing all his crooked teeth.

"Daddy," I cried, not at all pretending; my heart was aching, sincere. I was no longer alone. He was headed for my bench, but I leapt up and embraced him, hugged him so tight he yelped, laughed.

"Laura," he said, "Laura, Laura, Laura," he sang, lifting me off my feet. My stomach flipped as he spun me, then just as swiftly, he set me down, beaming. He cupped my head in his hands and kissed me upon the lips, soft, gentle; the very chastity of the act charging it with eroticism, a promise of kisses more savage to come. "Go on, then," he said and took me by the hand. "Take me home."

In the taxi, he draped his coat over his lap and pulled my hand underneath it, to rest over his groin. He was soft, still; his eyes lazy. He loved to do this from time to time, to cup me or have me cup him this way, to remind me of who it was that truly owned me. I stroked him gently, not with the intent to arouse, rather to relish and possess him in turn. I wanted to tell him how much I had missed him, how I would have wanted nothing more than to have him take me right here and right now, but I couldn't speak. 

He lifted his hand to the silk ribbon at my throat, his fingers against my pulse. Now he could feel how my heart was galloping, how fast I was breathing, all of my body saying _see what you're doing to me?_ He hooked his fingers into the bow and pulled me into a kiss, a slow kiss, stirring a little underneath my palm. He kissed my jaw, my cheek, making me break out in gooseflesh all over, then leaned in to whisper in my ear. "Lower, my child, lower. Feel how full they are? I haven't touched myself in three days."

I whimpered, but he clasped his other hand over my mouth, kissing my ear. "Shh. Tonight I'm going to see if you've kept your promise. To see if you've kept yourself nice and tight for me."

"I have," I whispered into his palm with a kiss, my pussy now so sensitised the movement of the car _hurt_. 

"Good, good," he purred, flicking his tongue against my ear. "You just wait until I _open you up_."

I pushed my mouth against his hand to suffocate my moan. But he grinned and let go of me, pushed me back and rearranged his coat. "Is it far?"

***

I led him into the apartment I'd made into a home, as much as two demons can have a home. It was certainly not a wholesome family home, but neither was it the Rococo lair he had owned in Stockholm, littered with bric-a-brac. It was modern, with clean and severe lines, with plenty of white and black, with high French windows looking out over the city. "Do you like it?"

"I'll let you know when I've seen the bedrooms."

"There are three. You can have whichever one you want."

The bedroom I'd mostly slept in myself was the only splash of colour in the apartment: it was what had attracted me to the place to begin with. Its walls were painted a brothel red, it had a fireplace, and I'd had the cast-iron bed, the floors and the walls covered with Oriental fabrics, furs. There were more lanterns and candles in the room than electric lights, and I liked it that way: it was like walking into a different world, one from a different era, an escape from the brutalism of its surroundings. 

The look on his face was curious--not condemning, but not rapturous either. He nodded as he took in the sights. "Very... bohemian. A little Victorian, perhaps, but quite charming. The others?"

"The next one should be more to your taste." 

The bedroom next door was a little smaller, the walls beige and white, just like his bedroom at home. This room, just like the living room, had French windows and a small balcony. I'd made sure to drape the windows with curtains the colour of cream coffee, knowing how much he loved the way the colour enhanced natural light, bathing the room in a soft warm glow in the mornings. And I'd even rescued some of his bric-a-brac: I'd hung his beloved miniatures over the desk, and upon the desk itself, flanked by his porcelain elephants ticked his cherished Rococo clock. 

He sat down on the bed--enormous, of course, big enough for someone as tall as he--and bounced on it with the glee of a schoolboy. "Perfection. Give my regards to the interior designer," he said, pulling me into his lap for a kiss. "Although I think we should give it a test drive."

"There's one more room left."

He kissed me with an impatient moan. "Then, let's see it."

The third bedroom was the smallest, but seemed larger for the reason that now made him whistle loudly. The room had no windows, but it was covered wall to wall, floor to ceiling with mirrors, multiplying us a thousandfold as we stepped inside. There was barely any room left over from the low, plain bed, a stark white rectangle that filled the room. But then the bedroom was only designed for one purpose, and it wasn't sleeping.

He embraced me from behind and chuckled at our reflections in the mirror. "Perfect." 

I leaned back against his chest and smiled. "I thought you might want to test drive _this_ one tonight."

"Oh, I will." He ran his hands down my chest, my belly, tugged up my skirt; he hissed as he saw the white panties I was wearing underneath. "Wear these." 

"I will." I kissed his hand. "But first, lunch. Then I'll run you a bath."

***

It was cold, so I'd lit a fire in the scarlet room and had drawn the curtains, making it so that when Torsten arrived from his bath, the entire room was like one soft, dark womb. He sprawled upon the rug in front of the fireplace in his silk dressing gown, stretching like a cat. When I took his head in my lap and offered him a brandy, he sighed in contentment. "First class service. I won't be needing a maid at this rate." 

"We have one, but I've given her the day off. I wanted you all to myself."

"Mmm. Because you don't want her to hear you screaming for me, that is," he said and pulled me into an upside-down kiss, so that we could both have the pleasure of sucking the lower lip. The kiss and the brandy made me warm in the belly, between the legs. That warmth was welcome after the discomfort of having just rinsed my ass, a thrill to my pussy after I'd just shaved it. For a week, I'd kept myself furry, so that I could be especially smooth for him tonight, to drive my dirty old man wild, to heighten my own pleasure when he touched me. I wanted him to touch me _now,_ wanted him to slip his hand between my legs already, but knew I had to wait and let him gather his strength. 

"You're squirming," he said when he pulled back from the kiss, his pupils wide from lust. "Has my little girl missed her Daddy?"

"I've missed you ever so much," I said, again filled with that sickening thrill of adopting a sugary, little girl's voice. I had not used it in months, and being finally able to do so was a pleasure headier than that of the alcohol. It was the first step of letting go of weeks and weeks of cursed adulthood, of responsibility. Finally, finally I could let myself become delicate and small in his arms; bliss. I could see his cock shifting underneath his dressing gown, adored the way his heavy lashes now fell to his cheeks as he laughed. 

"Your Daddy has missed his little girl, too," he purred, and with a sudden groan, he sat up and pulled me into his arms. He sat me in his lap and I wrapped my limbs around him, clinging to him, trembling from sheer happiness. He slid his hands underneath my jacket and caressed my back, inhaling my hair. "You smell so sweet," he murmured. "A little bit of shampoo here, a little bit of vanilla behind the ear." He breathed more heavily, now, and I felt a tremendous power, a tremendous feminine power in arousing him this way, with all the little things I'd done to prepare myself for him. It was exactly what I'd wanted, and now he was quivering thanks to it, my magnificent creation of a little girl. And as he kissed my neck, I quivered, too; this girl always felt more real than my daytime self did, now that I had peeled so many layers off myself and revealed what was at my core. The core only he had been able to touch, the sweet, moist core I wanted him to feast upon again and again.

"That feels funny, Daddy," I said, simpering so that he hissed through his teeth at my play. I shook in shock myself at the words that left my mouth; at how perfectly I became the innocent. I turned that mouth into sugar, into pouts, all of myself a delicacy for him to taste. "It makes me feel all tingly when you kiss me there."

At that, he kissed my neck more fiercely, sucking upon my skin so that I cried out into his shoulder, sure that he would leave a mark. I didn't care; that kiss sent a jolt straight into my pussy, made it flash, spark, more than any other type of kiss ever did. It was a horrible kiss, an awful kiss because it made me want to tear myself apart if I didn't get fucked right now, my pussy clenching, sucking around the ghost of the cock it needed inside of itself. I sobbed, like a child denied. "Stop, Daddy, please, stop!" 

"Whatever for?" he laughed as he pulled back, his eyes glittering in demonic delight. "Does it hurt?"

"It makes the tingling worse." 

"Mm-hmm? Is it a good tingle or a bad tingle?"

I nodded downwards, between my legs, closing my eyes in shame. "It feels funny--down there." 

He pretended surprise. "Really? What have you got there?" He lifted my skirt and my pussy pulsed; I nearly lost my balance as I shook in his lap. "Let me see."

I laid myself down on the rug and spread my legs, lifting the skirt up to my belly. I was wet, so wet there must've been a visible stain on my panties; again, I clenched so hard my thighs shook. The low croon in his throat didn't help; it felt as if my pussy couldn't stop clenching as he spread my legs and leaned in between them, _sniffing me._

"But my dear girl," he said, his mouth open, panting. "Here, you smell even sweeter. Have you been stealing candy again? Is that what you've been smuggling in your panties?"

I moaned and bit my lip. "No, Daddy."

He tutted. "I think you are a naughty little liar, Laura. This smells _exactly_ like Daddy's favourite candy." He sniffed me again, theatrically, his lashes fluttering sharp, jagged. "I think you've been saving this candy up for me, so that you could tease me with it. Isn't that right?"

I couldn't bear to look at him, at his wet mouth, at his wicked eyes; my head tossed upon the rug and I mumbled into my shoulder. 

"I can't hear you, Laura." 

He ran his hand over my slit, up and down, up and down, pressing so lightly it drove me insane. Only when I failed to hold back a moan did he stop. I panted and looked up at him, trembled. "Yes, Daddy. I'm sorry, Daddy."

"Don't be sorry. I think it's quite touching. Have you been taking good care of your candy for me?" he said and brought his thumb to the top of my slit, rubbing my clitoris through it. My panties were now soaking wet; I could see his fingertips were gleaming.

"Yes, Daddy," I said. I captured his hand between my thighs and squeezed, wanting to keep him there. "I just--I wanted you to touch it," I said, and all of a sudden, the words caught in my throat and prickled; my eyes filled with tears. All of these weeks suddenly came crashing down on me, and I sobbed underneath him. "I missed your hands so much, Daddy. I missed you touching me."

He laughed softly, the corners of his eyes crinkling with mirth as he leaned over me and kissed me. "I missed touching you, too, my child." He cupped my cheek and searched my eyes, speaking to me like a teacher encouraging a pupil. "Now, what have you been doing with your candy? Tell me."

I stole another kiss and whimpered into his mouth, from emotion, from arousal. When I let go, I laid down again and spread my legs, inviting him to look at me once more. "I've kept it all fresh and clean for you, Daddy."

He sneaked his fingers into the waistband and peeked inside, then laughed in mock-shock. "But Laura, Laura! It's all _smooth_ down here." He pulled the panties lower so that my thighs were trapped together, framing my pussy, pressing its lips together in offering. "A smooth little baby pussy," he crooned.

At his words, I shook so much my hips came off the floor. I cried out loudly as he pulled me to lie down on my side, so that he could spread my buttocks, look at my pussy and my ass. He just chuckled. "You know exactly what your Daddy likes." 

_A little baby pussy._ I reeled at his words, the way he articulated the exact perversity of what we were doing. And again, he purred it, "A smooth little baby pussy," leaning down to lap at me in uninhibited, sick delight. And which one of us was more insane, he or I? Because I loved this, loved being violated over and over, giving myself to my beloved uncle, my beloved father over and over. I could have left him long ago, could have rejected his desires, but why should I have if those desires matched mine exactly? I laughed inside at the idea of what would have happened had Fate never brought us together. Would he have become a real molester, preying on true innocents instead of the child who was born a whore? Would I have burned myself to exhaustion seducing older men, none of whom would have dared give me this, the father-lover I had always sought? I sobbed in gratitude to the Devil, sobbed at each of Torsten's licks, sucks, huffs and snorts as he buried his face in my pussy and gave us our ultimate fulfillment.

"Please, Daddy, please, please," I cried from the bottom of my damned little heart. I wanted to be fucked; feared that the blood that had now packed into my genitals would cause me some bizarre form of nervous damage. "It feels so good, so good. Please give me some more, I can't--"

At that, he growled and pulled my panties back on and smacked my ass. "Get on your hands and knees."

Shaking, I did as I was told. He hissed and stroked his cock through his silks, leaning back on the rug. "Turn your ass towards me. Arch your back. Show me."

I pulled up my skirt, pulled my panties higher so that they dipped into my slit, the cotton now completely soaked and slick against my pussy. I glanced at him over my shoulder. "Like this, Daddy?"

"Yes, just like that." He leaned over me and grabbed me by the hair, rewarding me with a hungry, savage kiss. "Off to the mirror room with you," he said, rubbing his cock against my pussy, panting into my mouth. "I want you to watch yourself seduce your father." With a bite, he let go and knelt behind me. "Now, _crawl._ "

With shaking arms and legs, I did. "No, that's too fast," he said. "Slower. Lift up your ass, push out your pussy. I want to see what I'm going to fuck."

Suffocating a whimper, I arched my back again and moved as slowly as possible. I tried to think of cats, how they walked with their tails held high, making each and every one of their steps soft, erotic. The way _he_ walked, more sensuous than most women I'd met. I let the warmth of lust flow up and down my spine, making it flexible, sinuous, flooding my every limb until all of me was throbbing, radiating with heat. 

It took an eternity for us to reach the mirror room, I felt, but finally, we did. He stood at the foot of the bed, right in front of the mirrors. 

"Get up. Stand in front of me, that's it."

He kissed me again and turned me to face the mirrors, to look myself in the eye. Grinning coldly over my shoulder, he took me by the hair and lifted me, lifted me until the pain made me dance on my toes, made me cry out into the hand he now clasped over my mouth. "Whore," he breathed into my ear, his voice slithering straight down my neck to my chest to my pussy. "Did you play with other men while I was gone?"

I shook my head and made a noise of protest. I'd told him about the two women in my letters, the analyst and the woman I'd briefly played with at a lesbian bar. I had not had other men since he had prostituted me at the brothel; how could I have? Nobody knew me the way Torsten did, nobody knew how to hurt me the way he did. 

"Take off your clothes."

Wincing in pain, I peeled off the jacket, the blouse, the skirt, the panties--when I finally got to my socks, he clicked his tongue and shook me by the hair. "Faster."

By now, my eyes were wet from tears of pain; my nipples hard and crinkled as he finally let go of my hair and cupped my breasts in his hands. It felt heavenly to have him squeeze them from behind, far better than when he squeezed them from the front. I leaned back against him and sighed in delight. "Thank you, Daddy."

"I missed these tits," he purred, smacking them, pinching them until I was squirming against him. "Thought of others looking at them, wishing I could be here to see it. My little girl with her big tits, every dirty old man's dream," he said, kissing my neck, pulling on my nipples. "Making men hard left, right and center. And this fat little pussy here, such a fat, fat little pussy..." he hissed, slipping his hand between my legs, and oh, the onomatopoeia of the way he always pronounced "pussy," always so sibilant, wet, slick. "Tell me, Laura, is that why you wear trousers? Jumpers? To show off your pretty titties, to make men look at the curve of your pussy?"

"No!" I screamed as he started to thrust his fingers inside. "No, Daddy. I only want you, Daddy; I only want you."

And it was true. We'd agreed to only play with others if the affairs were homosexual; any others, we had sworn to share between the two of us. I had never let other men fuck my pussy, partially because of the fear of pregnancy, but also because of a twisted sense of romanticism. I only wanted Torsten's cock in there, the first one that had ever claimed it, the only one that would ever feel right. "It's yours." 

He pulled his fingers out, slick, and now spread my pussy with them, pushed my hips forward so that I could see everything: how wet I was, how pink and red and swollen. He chuckled and kissed my cheek. "It's almost a shame. It's such a pretty little pussy." He pinched my folds and tugged them, slapped my pussy until I was sobbing again, until his entire hand was smeared from my juices. 

"Please, Daddy, please--"

"Hmm?" He shrugged off his dressing gown and slipped his cock between my buttocks, fucking their cleft as he rubbed my clitoris. "Do you want me to fuck this little pussy?"

"Yes!"

"Why should I?" 

"Because I've made it sweet for you, Daddy. Sweet for your mouth, soft for your fingers, wet for your cock--"

He laughed. "A little poet, that's what you are." He thrust his fingers into me so hard I now made slippery noises, watched in astonishment as my pussy dripped off his hand onto the floor. I was shaking all over, so close to orgasm now, my weight forcing me down onto his hand. I howled, balancing with my hands against the mirror. 

"Daddy--"

Yet he wrenched me back by the hair. "Beg."

" _Please_ fuck my pussy, Daddy. Please."

"Slut." He took his hand out of my pussy and smeared it all over my face. The shock of it made my entire body convulse; my knees buckled. I couldn't even howl, just coughed, snorted, stared into my eyes in the mirror, my mascara now smudged from tears, from my fluids. 

Before I could say anything, he had sat down on the bed and pulled me to sit in his lap so that we were both facing the mirror; I nearly fell over and tried to balance myself against the mirror again. But he pulled my hands behind my back and grabbed my arms. "Ride me," he rasped in my ear. "Go on. Watch as you sit on your Daddy's cock." 

I shuddered on top of him from the very idea, yet was frustrated by the difficulty of guiding his cock inside of me in this position. He had to let go for a little while so I could rub and spread my pussy right, to wet its lips right, to move my folds out of the way. Finally, I managed it, and oh, the sight--I'd never seen him sink inside of me like this. I mewled as I held him there, held myself in place only with the muscles of my pussy, spreading myself around him. Was this what he saw, every time? Was this why he loved exotic flowers so much, if this was the sight they reminded him of, the way my flesh now unfurled around him? My pussy tried to clench around his length, but he was too big, too thick: how I could ever have taken all of this inside of myself, I had no idea. I hurt because of the way my weight forced me down on him; the head of his cock pressed against my womb so hard it made a sharp knife of pain cut through me. 

"Please--" I shook, begging for mercy. 

But he spread my legs on either side of his thighs and grabbed my arms once more, forcing himself ever deeper. He peeked over my shoulder and growled. "Fuck yourself. Go on. Slick up my cock."

I had no choice but to move on top of him, forcing myself to focus on the pleasure, on my father's command. _Slick,_ I thought, _slick,_ willing myself to get wetter, to pleasure him, myself better. _My father's cock, my father's cock, oh, God, my father's cock,_ I thought as I rode him; concentrating all of my being on how much I loved him, how much I had needed him, this. For three months, I hadn't felt this beautiful, hard, brutal heat and width inside of me; for three months, I hadn't felt his sperm splashing inside of me. The glory of being penetrated by him, the sound of his heavy breathing behind me, the smell of his sweat and cologne in my nostrils. I loved him, loved him with my pussy, with all of my body, and there, there, the pain finally started to fade and I shuddered on top of him. "Daddy," I cried at his reflection, a wounded cry of anguish, of surrender. 

"That's it, my sweet girl," he rasped. "That's it. Daddy loves you." He let go of my arms and hugged me to himself, pushed my hair out of my face and kissed me. "My beautiful girl, my beautiful girl. Look at what you are to me, look."

And now, the sight of myself, my breasts heaving, my stomach dipping, rippling as he penetrated me deep--oh, it made me swoon. He took my hair in both of his hands, not to hurt me this time but to frame my face, to force me to look at myself. "Beautiful," he said, the thought echoing in my mind, _beautiful,_ Laura the millionairess in the metropolitan penthouse, where she had always wanted to be. Where she had been meant to be. This was it; this was my destiny, the one I had carved out for myself. And yet, underneath the successful woman lay the child-whore now dancing upon her father's cock, perfect, perfect; nothing could be more perfect. I brought my hand to my pussy and rubbed it, rubbed it until his strokes sent rising pulses of pleasure through my womb; as he felt me unravelling, he fisted his hands in my hair and twisted, pulled, made me scream until those waves cascaded through me. I screamed from the top of my lungs, each blow of his cock a shockwave rippling through my blood, bone and marrow; I screamed on and on until the last of those ripples had faded, until my throat was hoarse.

He laid himself back down and slipped out of me, panting himself. He hissed and curled up on the bed, staring down at his cock, a dark, furious red. "Fuck," he laughed, his hand trembling upon my cheek as we lay face to face. "You almost made me come, there." 

I wanted so much to touch his cock, to suck it, to make him come in my mouth, but I sunk my hands into his hair and kissed him instead. The thought of him saving his sperm up for my ass thrilled me beyond measure; my ass clenched at the thought, sending one last orgasmic tremor through my womb. "I want you to fuck me in the ass, Daddy," I purred, and the very words made his cock jerk, made his eyes narrow with desire. I was an evil little tease and knew it, daring to slide my hand to his hip, my thumb stroking the side of his stomach just above his hipbone, to where I knew he was exceptionally sensitive. "I've only ever fingered it a few times."

He moaned and pulled me into a kiss, rubbing himself against me. "Dirty girl. I knew you couldn't resist touching it. Did you taste it, too, when I was gone?"

"No. But I've been taking the saccharine, just like you told me to."

"And are you clean, now?"

"I just rinsed."

"Shame; you will have rinsed all the sweetness off," he murmured against my mouth, and he disgusted me and aroused me at the same time.

"You're sick," I whimpered, but he laughed and smacked my ass. To think that he'd returned from Sweden even dirtier a bastard than he'd been before--oh, the thought of his new fetish horrified me, yet I imagined him licking that Scotsman's ass, what he must have looked like with his cock dripping upon the sheets at the new taste he'd discovered. He'd made me curious, and I hated him for it, hated the new pulse of heat in my pussy, remembering that one time he had taken my ass without preparation and had forced me to taste it, not knowing what I was tasting. 

"You're sick, so sick," I whispered into his mouth, sugar-soft as he pushed a finger inside my ass, "a sick bastard, a sick _fuck,_ " I purred as he laughed, turned me onto my stomach and licked my ass. I was burning up again, pushing my ass onto his tongue, my spine liquid once more. I fucked him with my ass, pushed it back onto his drooling, grunting face, my pussy so wet that when I looked between my legs, I saw I was dripping down his chin.

He pulled back and huffed, slapping my ass. "Turn around. So that I can see your ass in the mirror."

I did so, but not before I'd tasted myself off his mouth, sucked myself off his tongue, panting from how much I wanted him. The mirror was only a handspan away from this end of the bed, and I bent as close to it as I could on all fours, my toes touching its surface. I closed my thighs like I had seen prostitutes do in dirty postcards; lifted my ass high to display my pussy, my asshole. 

He only paused to pick up a bottle of glycerine from the bedside table. As he knelt beside me, I tried to reach for his cock, but he swatted my hands away and placed them on my buttocks. "Spread yourself. Can you see?"

I twisted my neck so I could. I spread my buttocks as forcefully as he would have, fingertips on either side of my anus. You could have mistaken it for a virgin's; that's how smooth it was, a tight little slit gleaming from his spit. And that's what he loved: he laughed wickedly as he spread my buttocks with me and stretched my hole, moving the skin back and forth, testing his present before opening it. His mouth was open all throughout, his tongue peeking out, and he was _drooling._ He opened his mouth even more and _dribbled_ spit onto my ass, letting it fall off his tongue onto my hole, massaging it into my flesh as I whimpered, my pussy clenching again and again as he did so.

"Now, let's see." He pushed two fingers in from either side and it hurt, it hurt; I had not slicked myself with glycerine beforehand. Perhaps because I had wanted it to hurt, had wanted to see that exact smile upon his face as he felt my ass spasming, as he felt me stiffen in pain. The purr in his chest was now louder, his cock bobbing, slapping against his stomach as he stretched my hole. "You _have_ kept yourself tight; my, my."

He spat again and pushed his fingers in deeper, hooking them, pulling me open. I gasped, trembling so much that I nearly fell off the bed, my toes squeaking against the mirror. The insides of my ass and my pussy were pulsing with delight, however, wanting him to fill them, my pussy smearing my thighs. 

"Fuck me, Daddy, please."

"Oh, no, no, no, my sweet girl," he laughed softly. "I've only just started. It's going to take a while for me to train this ass again," he said, twisting his fingers in further, reminding me of what I had been able to take before. "Or is it that you want to hurt? You want me to take you dry, is that it?"

"No," I lied, closing my eyes in shame. 

It was a lie he saw straight through, and smiled at me from the mirror as he kept tugging at my ass. "I'm afraid I want a good slide tonight, my child," he murmured, kissing my back. "You don't want your Daddy to rub his cock raw on the first night, do you?"

"I'm sorry, Daddy."

He smacked my ass. "As you should be." He picked up the glycerine and poured some on his hands, then smeared it all over my ass, using almost the entire bottle to make my buttocks glisten and gleam. Only then did he push the rest inside with his fingers. This time, they slid in so swiftly I tensed once again, but underneath his fingers--oh, God, that was four, _four_ he was now pulling me open with--my pussy could not stop clenching as he spread me wide. If I had been touching my clitoris, I would've come there and then as I saw all the way inside of my ass, all pink and black, raw. He shook his arms so that my entire ass jiggled, I gasping, horrified at the lewdness of the image, clawing at the sheets. "Please, Daddy, please, please--"

He slid four of his right hand's fingers inside my ass and offered his left hand to my mouth. "Ask nicely."

"Please," I said, looking into his eyes as I sucked my taste off his index finger. "Please," I repeated with each finger as I sucked it clean, shaking from how he was filling me. I felt nauseous, even more so as I watched him fuck my ass with his hand. How could I have ever taken his entire hand inside of me, if just his fingers hurt this much, made me afraid I would pass out from the shock to my nervous system? "Please, Daddy. You're killing me."

"Now, there's a thought. Perhaps next time, you'll play dead for me," he said as he slid his hand out and laid me down on my side, spooning me so that we were facing the mirror. "Would you like that?" he purred as he started to guide his cock inside my ass. 

"Oh, fuck, oh, fuck--"

He slapped my cheek, hard. "Language. You are to only use that word if you're begging for me to take you. Do you understand?"

"Yes! I'm sorry, Daddy, I'm sor--" but my words snapped in half as he lifted my knees to my chest and slid the head of his cock inside. As he pushed beyond the deepest, tightest muscles of my ass I became only silence, only shallow breathing and stars dancing in my eyes. Drunk, I watched the show he was now giving to both of us, as if I were an outside observer: the soft, blonde girl now sodomised by a tall, dark man, his eyes of the Devil's. The girl's pussy that of a child's, his red, slick cock that of a satyr's, the pink ring of her ass moving back and forth with his cock, his every long and cruel thrust. He was so deep inside of me I felt it in my stomach, my throat: cold sweat broke upon my skin and my eyes rolled back in my head. I clutched, patted him, the bed; gagged as he kept on fucking me, hurting me. 

"Shh, shh," he whispered, still holding my legs against my body, hugging me against himself. "This is what you wanted, wasn't it, my child?" he said, slowing down, pulling out almost entirely, then pushed so deep inside my vision went white, then black. I could only hear his voice, the melodious, feline cadence of it, murmuring tenderness in my ears. "Such a good little girl, such a good little ass, such a tight little ass for your Daddy. You've made me so proud, girl, made me so happy, girl, can you feel how hard you've made your old man?"

"Mmhh," I slurred. That was all I could manage as the nausea faded a little and my eyes fluttered open. He stayed still inside of me, buried nearly up to his balls. He draped my own arm around my knees so I could hold them against my stomach myself, then brought his hand to my pussy. He began to stroke my slit softly, so softly I shivered all over: now, I could only feel pleasure, my pussy and my ass clenching against him, around him. 

"There you are," he purred. "Isn't that a beautiful sight?"

"Yes," I cried, turning my head so he could kiss me. He was smiling in a way that on any other human would've looked beatific; yet on him it was satanic, far more beautiful than an obedient angel's smile could have ever been. He kept gazing into my eyes as he fucked me, stroked me until I melted in his arms. The heat of orgasm had never risen this softly in me, yet every time he flicked my clitoris and pushed his cock past the curve of my womb, pleasure like white-hot, shimmering ink spilled inside me, saturated me, made me glow. "I love you, Daddy," I whispered.

"Say that again."

"I love you," I said and this time, he sucked each word from my lips, ate each one from my mouth. The touch of his lips made me splash with heat again, and I looked into his eyes, pleading. "May I come, Daddy?"

He moved his fingertips in my slit. "Please, do. But you have to look in the mirror. Watch yourself. You look so beautiful when you come through the ass. I want you to see that."

He sounded so tender, so vulnerable it made my heart leap; "Yes, Daddy," I said in my sweetest, sweetest voice. "Show me."

Again I turned my gaze to the blonde girl-child, to her father's beautiful, long fingers gently stroking her bare pussy, his beautiful, thick cock sinking inside her ass. He slid in so easily, now, moving a little faster, making his strokes longer, knowing how much I loved it when he hit that special spot inside of me with force. _A little girl-faggot,_ he'd called me, saying that was the exact same spot a man's prostate lay, and just like a man, I dripped each time his cock slid past it. 

He held my gaze through the mirror, guided it with his own, exposed me to myself: as I saw my pussy trickle through his fingers, I could no longer hold back the convulsions. With his other hand, he grabbed my hair and forced me to keep looking: I held my eyes open even as I shuddered in his arms, even as my thighs jerked so hard I nearly fell off the bed. I keened through my teeth, then wailed, coming and coming, a new ring of ripples emanating from my hips at each one of his thrusts like stones cast into a lake. And all throughout, his eyes, my father's pale, demonic eyes watching me over my shoulder, drinking in the sights. 

"Beautiful," he whispered into my shoulder, into my sweat-wet hair as I fell slack in his arms. "Beautiful." I simply lay there as he kept moving inside of me, adoring him, content to exist only as warm, flowing flesh around him, flesh for him to bury himself in. He slowed down so much I wondered if we would fall asleep like this; him still hard, inside of me. Yet with a groan, he started to move faster; from his voice I could hear he was desperate for release. 

And oh, how I wanted to pay him back for what he'd given me; I wanted to do so many things to him. I wanted to suck him, wanted to lick his ass, wanted to satisfy him in any way I could, so I turned around and swallowed his cock into my mouth. Finally, the taste of the deepest recesses of my body was upon my tongue: I sobbed in ecstasy as I savoured it, analysing what was glycerine, what was pussy juice, what was the taste of my ass underneath it all. And there, there, I tasted it: a sweetness I had not tasted before, making me moan around his cock, making me rub my pussy so furiously I was pushed to the brink of orgasm once more.

And he'd guessed it, his eyes flying wide in excitement. He lifted himself onto his elbows and smirked. "Saccharine?"

"Yes," I gasped as I pulled up for breath. I laughed, delirious from shock, yet licked around the root of his cock, the part I had not managed to swallow yet, seeking every last trace of that taste. "I can't believe it," I murmured against his balls, shaking my head. 

"Then I _must_ take you dirty next time," he growled and pulled my head back, rearranging me upon the bed with my ass towards the mirror, the same position I had been in when he'd opened me. He squatted on top of me and started to push his cock inside. "What do you think, my child? If I push deep enough, will I find more of it? Will I touch saccharine-flavoured _shit?_ " 

I was too busy wailing to answer. He could always get so deep inside of me in this position it horrified me: and now, for the first time, I saw exactly how deep. My neck hurt as I kept looking, as he slammed into me so hard he was sinking me into the mattress, but I couldn't stop. I had to see it all. His cock felt even bigger from this angle, yet now it was sliding back and forth so easily, so that he could bury himself in me entirely. With a low, guttural groan he thrust so deep inside of me his balls smacked against my pussy with every blow: they were now so full, drawn so high I knew he was close. 

He fucked me so hard my pussy made disgusting noises as air was pushed out of it; so slippery, so wet--I had to bring my hand to it and rub it. With only a few strokes, I was coming once more, this time so hard I was screaming underneath him, screaming like I was being slaughtered: he fucked me so fast my vision turned into a shower of sparks. Black and white and purple lights were flashing so rapidly behind my eyes I was terrified: was this what an epileptic felt? Or one collapsing into schizophrenia, endless hallucinations? If one of these days, he would overload my nervous system, flood my brain with such unnatural chemicals that there would be no turning back, and I would be turned into gibbering madwoman forever? Yet there, I gibbered, laughed, growled, snarled, cried as he fucked me through my orgasm, as he made my pussy spray my hand with each one of his thrusts.

He was laughing, too, howling as he let go, as he clutched me against his chest and fucked my ass full of sperm. On and on he came, on and on and on; I felt him reach behind himself and even if I couldn't turn to look, I knew he was pushing fingers into his ass to make his orgasm last, to make his ejaculation as voluminous as possible. For me, all for me; I shivered in delight as pulse after pulse of sperm filled my guts and slicked up his cock, dripped out of me over my pussy, against his balls still slapping against me. And now it was my ass that was slurping, too, Torsten groaning in ecstasy at the sound as he shuddered on top of me. "Spread your ass. That's it. Now--don't move, don't move, don't move," he stuttered, then lifted just a little to allow me to turn my head towards the mirror. "Look, Laura, look."

And I looked: slowly, so very slowly he pulled his cock out of my ass, every fat inch of it, then laid it on the small of my back so I could see how wide open I was. I cried out as I saw myself, saw my hole gaping open, more open than I'd ever seen it before. And as I cried out, the movement of my belly pushed his come out of my ass: it poured out over my pussy in a thick, chunky stream, disgusting, delicious. I could not tell if it was all white or if there was a little yellow mixed in, and that made my guts spasm again: another blast of come burst out of my ass, this time spraying the mirror, making me whimper in horrified awe. Another fart of come and he was upon me: before the stream of sperm could hit the mattress, he caught it with his tongue, licking it off my pussy, slurping it loudly into his mouth. I screamed because I had no choice, because I was too overwhelmed, sobbed into the sheets as he sucked each and every drop of his sperm out of me, swallowing it all back into himself. 

"It's sweet," he keened, his voice quavering, "sweet, sweet, saccharine sweet, oh, Laura--"

"Let me taste it, please, please," I cried, not believing my own ears. "Please, please, Daddy, please."

He pushed four fingers inside of me again, twisting them inside of me as he laid me down on the bed and faced me. There, he kept fucking me, pushing little wails out of me as he shared what little was left with a kiss: he'd swallowed most of it, but I still sucked the remains off his lips, off his shameless tongue. I was not sure if I could taste any sweetness that wasn't glycerine: yet the very thought made me shudder in one last orgasmic aftershock upon his hand, against his body. 

"You dirty old man," I murmured, soft with love as he took out his hand and lapped his fingers clean. "You dirty, dirty old man," I smiled as he pulled me into his arms and hugged me, wrapping all of his limbs around me. 

"I love you too, my child," he said, combing my hair from my face, his face glowing from tenderness, from utter relaxation. "I love you so much," he sighed and kissed me as accomplices do, then hugged me against his chest. "So much, so much." 

I laced my fingers with his and kissed him on the cheek. "Welcome home, Daddy."


	3. Chapter 3

The first few weeks of our life together in New York were a flurry of parties, amusements, diversions. I resented the days I had to crawl out of bed with a hangover to attend to business, while Torsten slept well until midday--again, I became the businessman and he the pretty, frivolous wife. Was this what rich men felt all the time? Yet I was happy, feeling energised because of the amount of activity around us. Torsten set out to forge important contacts and relationships, to well and truly establish us in societies high and low.

Even if he was a poor businessman, he had a magnificent skill for finding just the sorts of people we needed for our purposes, whether those purposes were financial or recreational. Some days, I would simply lean back and watch the way he lured in the wealthy and the impressionable, relishing his mesmerism, his legerdemain as he used his body and his words to draw people to himself. His charm intoxicated me, his lies and empty promises the most exquisite of aphrodisiacs. Afterwards, I would pounce him, suck his cock in broom closets, back alleys, drunk simply on the power he exuded.

Tonight was no exception. We were at home and had been entertaining a few guests, only one of whom lingered. From the living room, I watched Torsten bid goodbye to our latest catch: a Miss Lind, fifteen, an heiress, an orphan--yes, another one, would you believe it? I laughed at that, too. It was no wonder he had done his utmost to charm her, even now leaning over her hand to kiss it, the very picture of chivalry. As she turned towards the door, I watched her round buttocks jiggling underneath her white satin dress and listened to the husky purr of her voice as she said goodnight. I was sorry to see her leave, even if I had been a little jealous. But that jealousy was nothing compared to the lust this long-lost sister now stirred in me. It was a twisted, narcissistic lust and all the better for that: she was soft and curvaceous, her skin the creamiest white with splashes of pink, her hair a platinum blonde. 

For this, people often compared her to Jean Harlow. To this, she would respond in her broad Brooklyn accent: "Honey, it's not that I look like Jean Harlow. It's that Jean Harlow _looked like me._ " The looks and quips of a movie star, the perfect diva at fifteen--how could I not adore her?

"She wants to fuck you," I said to Torsten when he returned, inhaling deep from my cigarette.

"Birgitte?" He leaned back on the sofa beside me and crossed his legs, smoking lazily himself. "A lot of people want to fuck me," he said breezily. "Do you think I should try and squeeze her in somewhere?"

"You know, I think she's bluffing."

"But you just said she wanted to fuck me."

"Oh, the lust is real, all right." I picked crumbs of tobacco from my lips. "It's just that there's something unnatural about it, something cold. Like a writer who pens romances but has never lived one. Do you think--she might be a virgin? That this whole glamour queen thing is just an act?" So many women did these things in private, but for most, the role-play remained in front of the mirror. Yet some brought that role into the outside world, because they knew they could achieve something by it. Torsten and I were great pretenders; it looked likely to me that Birgitte was one, too, thirsty for money and pleasures the same way we were.

"Maybe you are right," he said, stumping his cigarette, blowing smoke through his nostrils. "Maybe she _is_ bluffing. All the more reason for us to seduce her, isn't it?"

I laughed--the thought of her secret purity, the innocent underneath the facade of the diva was what had finally awakened Torsten's lust. I could see his eyes glittering, saw him squeeze his thighs together the way he always did when his prick started to swell. So I laid my hand on his thigh, fingertips not quite touching the curve of his cock. "We should show her how it's done," I said, the very thought making my pussy swell in turn.

He pulled me into a soft, languid kiss. "Mm-hmm? I thought you said you were done with women."

I slid my hand to his cock and cupped it. "Not if I can lure her in and then watch you _ruin_ her." _Like you ruined me._ The very thought of being a spectator in this bloodsport aroused me until I was dizzy with it: to watch him at work, seducing an innocent, fucking an innocent before me. A re-enactment of my own debauching, another pink pussy yielding to his cock, another pink ass forced open; I imagined tears running down Birgitte's face as Torsten fisted his hands in her hair and I shivered in delight. I felt wet between my legs, now; I couldn't hold back a moan. 

He squeezed my hand over his cock and chuckled into my mouth. "Being fucked in front of the mirror really gave you ideas, didn't it?"

"God. Please, Torsten. We must do this."

He slapped my cheek lightly. "Don't call me that when you talk about fucking."

"I'm sorry, Daddy," I murmured, the sting of his slap making my nipples harden, now. I only ever called him by his first name when it was serious; the few times I had done so during sex had indicated that he was hurting me too much, that he had gone too far, and he'd had to stop. He'd come to hate his name that way, always associating it with being sexually thwarted. 

"I forgive you." He lifted my chin. "So. My little girl wants a taste of pussy, then?"

I nodded. He searched my eyes, calculating, obviously processing what he knew about my tendencies. "There's only one way in which this will work," he murmured, half to himself. "I don't want you to come crying to me like a little brat this time, having forced yourself into doing things you'll never enjoy. But I think there's a way..." he leered.

"Yes?" My heart thrummed in my chest.

He undid his trousers and slid my hand inside, then took my face in both his hands and whispered against my mouth. "I'm going to _use you._ "

I gasped, my hand shaking as I lifted out his cock, now hardening from his cruelty. "Yes?"

His eyes flashed with ice and his grin was sharp, jagged. "Yes," he drawled, nodding. "How would you like to become my instrument, Laura? An extension of me? To think as I think, to think with your cock? To hunt that bit of tail down for me? So that I can have _both_ of you kneeling at my feet, your little pussies all wet and aching for me?"

"Yes," I moaned, trembling violently at the very thought. To not only submit to him, but to become a part of him, a flesh and blood channel for that all-devouring, all-ravishing sexual force of his. Already, my eyes opened wider, my nostrils flared; the hot heaviness between my legs wanted to reach outwards as well as inwards, a psychic erection. I quivered with it and kissed him hungrily, like a man kisses a woman, licking his mouth, panting into it. "You're a genius."

"That's what I've always said," he hissed. He pushed me down so that I was kneeling between his legs, then slapped my lips with his cock. "Now, show me. Show me how you'll teach her to suck my cock."

I did. I focused on his pleasure alone, deriving my own from his, from dedicating my body completely to his service. He must've thought I was weeping because his cock stopped my throat, but my tears came well before that, from sheer joy. This was what I had been yearning for, this complete letting go of my self, and now he was again offering to make it a full-time occupation for me. The bliss of it, the bliss--in gratitude, I slicked his cock up with my mouth, making love to it, lifting his balls the way he loved best. And all the while, I stared up into his face, dizzy from lack of oxygen, from the vertignious sky of his eyes. _I adore you,_ I said with my mouth and my hands and my eyes. _I adore you, I adore you, I adore you,_ I wrote with my tongue as he turned around and offered me his ass. I was sure he was thinking of his ménage à trois right now: of two girls, one pleasuring him in the front, one at the back; that's how tremulous his cries were, that's how fast he was stroking his cock. 

"More," he cried out, panting into the sofa cushions. "More."

I clasped his hips with my hands and with my mouth, I devoured his ass--heaven, a musty, salty, dark and delicious heaven. I pushed my tongue as deep inside of him as I could and moaned, knowing what the vibrations of the sound would feel like inside his hips. I kept on moaning, kept on fucking him with my tongue, clawing at his hipbones until he jerked violently for one last time. He keened high in his throat as he came, his hand making slick noises on his cock as he rocked his ass against my tongue; I kept it stiff even if it hurt, knowing how he wanted to draw his pleasure out. 

By the time he turned around, he was far from the suave gentleman our guests had known. Strands of his hair had fallen to his cheeks, his face was gleaming with sweat and his suit was rumpled; he was _beautiful._ He slumped on the sofa and took me by the hair. "You're not going to let the maid see that, are you?" he said, nodding towards the puddle of come on the sofa. 

"No, Daddy," I said and shuddered in ecstasy as he pressed my face into the cushion, smearing my face with his sperm. I sobbed in joy, licking it all off, indescribable elation filling my entire being as I saw him smile down at me. That he was still not tired of this, that I could give him delight like this with my humility, my submission, my worship of him. I blinked back tears once more. "Thank you, Daddy."

For that, he took me with his fingers, his mouth; he devoured my pussy with such greed his face became as smeared as mine. "You will fuck her like this," he snarled and curled his fingers in my pussy, fucked me with them until I was wailing, imagining it. Imagining fucking Birgitte with my fingers while Torsten squeezed her breasts, fucked her ass; that was what finally made me come undone. I held his face in my hands as he looked up at me, fucking me with his hand; I screamed again and again as he forced me to come all over his face, my body dancing upon his fingers. 

"Fuck," I cried, shuddering, staring as he continued to fuck me. "Fuck," I cried even louder as he pulled his hand out and slapped me on each cheek, sending two more orgasmic jolts through my body. "You're so good to me," I murmured, pulling him into my arms. "My Daddy's so good to me. So good."

He lifted my hair from my face and kissed me, kissed me deep as he rocked himself inside of me. "And tomorrow, you'll show me what a good daughter you can be. Won't you?"

"Yes," I promised and wrapped my legs around him, melting underneath him.

***

The next day, I met Birgitte for lunch. As I walked to the café, I could still feel Torsten's sperm soaking into me, climbing into my every cell, an osmosis of his wickedness. He'd fucked me well that morning, more masculine than I'd ever seen him, hard and violent, suffusing me with his sexual power. In the manner of a primitive occultist, he had summoned up that power in himself, whipped himself into an erotic rage, and duly, I had responded. I had sworn at him, slapped him, called him names. We had fought, pulling each other's hair, clawing at each other, the sex itself a mimicry of rape--I had pulled a muscle in my back when he'd forced my arms behind my back and fucked me on the floor.

And oh, I'd been screaming until I was hoarse; until I was glowing with him, the impact of each one of his cock's blows reverberating through me until I'd felt myself become all cock in turn. Cock, cock, cock; the violating, hard, keen and greedy prick, the tight, unbearable ache of the balls, the frantic need to surge out as sperm. The rut, the musk, the grunts, the plunging into the heated, sweet darkness of another's flesh, forever seeking the womb he had been separated from. When I had come, it had been with him; the very moment I'd felt his sperm splash inside of me, I'd felt the psychic spill of it into each and every corner of my being, and I could have sworn he was whispering _become me, become me, become me._

So here, down the avenue now walked Laura the half-vamp, half-playboy with the swagger of the cad and the languid hips of the whore. I wore a blood-red suit and a blood-red hat, an outrageously large hat with an outrageously large black feather in it. People stared at me in the street and I drank in those stares, drank it all, the jealousy, the disapproval, the admiration and the hatred. It was all food for me, something to nourish myself with; each time my very existence provoked a reaction, it gave more fuel to my fire. And thus, I walked like a flame, swaying, flickering, licking the air, devouring the oxygen around me. 

And there, at the very back of the private section of the café, at a corner table only the richest could afford, sat Birgitte. _My little angel,_ the dirty old man in me purred, as Birgitte was clad in all white, well aware of how it illuminated her, how it accentuated the fairness of her skin and the unnaturally light halo of her hair. _I can't wait to see how far you'll fall._

She received me with enthusiasm, with a hug that lingered, a wet kiss on my ear, her soft flesh suffused with the cool and fresh perfumes of neroli, vanilla and lily-of-the-valley. Perfumes that reminded me of Helena whenever she had dressed in male attire: yet Birgitte was all female as she jiggled into her seat, voluptuous, her heavy breasts brushing the table's edge as she leaned towards me. 

"So." I leaned over in turn and lit her cigarette. "Tell me more about yourself, Birgitte."

Thus, there, for the better part of an hour, we chatted about her, me, about this and that; I found her company stimulating. She was entertaining enough, if a little vain and frivolous. We talked animatedly of our favourite films, of books, of the stories that titillated us, touched us, and found some sisterhood in that at least. Nevertheless, our likeness was more physical than spiritual: I did wonder if the waiter mistook us for a pair of sisters, both blonde girls of the same height and complexion, both blue-eyed, both curvaceous. In intelligence, however, I soon realised she was below my level, and not just because she was one year my junior. But at least she had some sense of humour in that pretty little head of hers, some imagination as well and a great deal of erotic allure--those things could take her far if she knew how to use them, especially in the bedchamber. In another age, she could have become the greatest of courtesans, the sort who could not only pleasure a man's body but also offer him good company. I thought of my analyst and how she'd made it to her age with the same, amazing potential within herself, but had let it lie dormant until it was too late. Until she had started to wither. 

I would not let the same thing happen to Birgitte, I told myself. I would rescue this girl from goodness into sin, no matter what it took. I would help her blossom as I had blossomed, would seduce each and every petal of this bud into unfurling, would spread her open so that she could release her fragrance, display her beauty to the world. The virility Torsten had fucked into me stirred, wanted to penetrate this beauty, to stretch it open. To make that neatly painted little mouth stutter profanities, droplets of Torsten's sperm spraying from her lips as I plunged my hand inside her, the little pussy I'd made into a _cunt_.

So lost was I in my erotic reverie that she noticed. "Am I boring you?" 

"No, not at all." 

"I'm sorry anyway. I would never, ever want to bore you. To have met you, Laura, it's fantastic, it's grand, so grand," she said, squeezing my hand, her eyes glowing like those of a drug addict. "There's no one my age here, and they all treat me like a kid. You're the first one who hasn't done that."

I nodded sagely through a plume of smoke. "I want us to become friends," I said, squeezing her hand back. "The best of friends."

She made such a noise of delight that the waiter nearly spilled our coffees. Presently, she clasped my hand with both of hers. "You're free for the rest of the day, aren't you? Let me take you shopping."

"I'd love nothing more." I stumped my cigarette and smiled, realising I was acting exactly as Torsten had done last night--blowing the smoke through my nostrils like a dragon when it spies a virgin. "Let me finish my coffee and you can show me around."

By the end of the afternoon, my feet hurt like hell and my hands were so full of shopping bags I had to constantly apologise to people for bumping into them. Yet I was grateful for Birgitte's knowledge of all the hidden wonders of the city--now I knew where this exiled Russian countess pawned her antique jewelry, where the mistress of that millionaire got her flamboyant hats, which couturier could cut a dress so ingeniously one could hide an unwanted pregnancy for months on end. All of this was subtle social knowledge, the currency of gossip, the sort of things one would need to know at dreary cocktail parties in order to be somebody. I had thought to make Birgitte a woman of the world, yet she was the one who educated me!

All of this from a fifteen-year-old whose mother had been a seamstress from Brooklyn and had married into money. She told me her father had been a Swedish entrepeneur--I'd vaguely heard the name of Lind somewhere, I thought, but I could not put a face to the name. Perhaps he had been one of the ones on our list of those who got away before we could swallow their businesses, perhaps having spent most of his time in America. And he'd died a few years ago, when Birgitte was twelve--followed soon after by her mother. A freak traffic accident only months after she'd lost her father.

"I don't know why I'm telling you this," she said when we we'd sat down on a park bench for a breather. She paused for a while and kicked at the ground with her shoe. "But I cursed God that day, and never set foot in a church again."

I laughed, laughed so uproariously I scared the pigeons away. If only Torsten were here!

"Don't laugh." She looked at her hands, perhaps thinking I found her ridiculous or blasphemous or both; it was hard to tell.

I put my arm around her and pulled her close, rubbing her shoulder. "I don't fault you; I don't fault you at all. After all, they say the Devil throws the best parties. And he never turns anyone away at the door."

She smiled a little weakly, taking my hand in hers. "You're wicked."

"And so are you." I measured her face with my eyes, with the long, caressing glances Torsten had taught me so well. "I like that."

Our faces were now so close it was inevitable: it was she who leaned towards me first and kissed me. It was a soft, chaste kiss with closed mouths, but I liked the firmness behind it, showing that whatever she now felt for me was real. I kissed her back, with equal sisterliness and emotion, so sweetly not a single soul in the park would have taken offense. They would not have known of how I already imagined Birgitte naked, stretching upon the white and cream satin of Torsten's bed. 

I cupped her cheek and smiled warmly. "When will I see you again, my little devil?"

"Oh, please let it be soon," she said, kissing my hand.

***

So, the weeks passed and I, having thought to enamour Birgitte, became enamoured with her myself. Oh, I was crushing terribly, feeling like the teenager I truly was. And with Birgitte, I let myself be one. We could go to the movies together, gossip together, share candy and perfume, fix each other's makeup and hair. And somehow, this felt like the role-play Torsten had given me, the license to be the little girl I'd never been allowed to be. And I was sure it was the same thing for Birgitte. She could be the tough, no-nonsense bitch around grown-ups, every inch the grown woman because she would not be taken seriously otherwise. But when we spent time together, kissing and giggling and swooning over fashions, film stars, both of us became soft, light, relishing every moment. My scarlet room became a safe haven for us, scattered with magazines, cosmetics, the little trinkets we would buy each other as love tokens. 

Torsten was amused at first, but I could see a touch of green seeping into his eyes, could see him frowning more. On the days I had exhausted myself emotionally and physically with Birgitte and couldn't respond to his caresses as enthusiastically as I wanted to, he became furious. It's not that I didn't love him; I was simply tired, and he, in order to get a reaction out of me, turned his caresses more violent, more cruel. I felt a perverse delight in lying in his bed or dangling from a hook in the wall, my body dancing to his blows, completely passive and yielding. I loved him even more, now, seeing how his jealousy inspired him to a passionate intensity, showing us both how much he needed me, how he would be nothing without me. So that even as he attached binder clips to my nipples and the folds of my pussy before fucking my ass, the pain rendering me completely silent, internally I would repeat _I love you, Daddy, I love you, I love you._

I became more fluid, spending my days in a trance, a dream; whenever I wasn't with Torsten, I felt myself reborn from him, as if both of us had merged in me now, become a whole new creation. Always, always Torsten's dark power would move through me, never separate from me. Whether I had to deal with business associates or hold hands with Birgitte, I could feel him in my hips, in the way my eyes devoured the world around me with insatiable greed. I told him this, showed him this, and he watched me in awe, finding this to be true: indeed, how could he be jealous of me if he _was_ me? 

"It is the you in me that wants her, you know," I whispered against his chest in bed, sated after sex. I laced my fingers with his. "My hands are your hands."

He nuzzled my hair and chuckled, mellow, now. "I've always wanted to have a woman's hands. But when do my own get to touch her?"

"I'll have to seduce her first. Tomorrow morning should do it. She's got plumbers coming in and I said she could use our bathroom. Did you get that mirror fixed?"

"Yes," he purred. "It's all in working order."

"Then, wish me luck."

"Oh, I will. I'll even sacrifice a chicken if that's what it takes," he murmured and took my mouth with a kiss.

***

I rubbed the silver bracelets at my wrists, nervous, waiting for Birgitte to arrive. I never went out without Torsten's necklace and cuffs, now; I even slept wearing them, loving the way how at any moment, he could hook his fingers around the necklace and stop my breath, signalling that he wanted sex. He had been brutal last night, dragging me across the floor by the cuffs; my wrists still ached and showed faint red marks. Birgitte was going to ask about them and both Torsten and I knew this; lust curled up my pussy at the thought of her kissing them better. But where the hell was she? Torsten had withdrawn to the mirror room a quarter of an hour ago and turned out the lights--the view through the two-way mirror to the bathroom was dim, but better than no view at all.

Finally, the doorbell rang. "I'm so sorry I'm late," Birgitte panted, bringing a gust of cold air with her. "It's just that I couldn't decide which clothes to bring. It's freezing outside."

"It's all right," I said and took her suitcase. "Father won't be home for a few hours yet; your virtue is safe."

"But my reputation isn't! You know what they're saying now?" she laughed as she pulled her scarf off her head, ruffling her hair. "They're convinced I'm out to seduce your dad. Would you believe it?"

I burst into laughter. "Like mother, like daughter? He _is_ very handsome," I said, subtly prompting her; "all the women adore him. I'm told he's considered quite a catch."

"Oh, he is a looker, I'll give him that. But imagine me becoming your stepmother!" she shook her head and flung herself onto the sofa. "And then you would hate me."

I sat down next to her and kissed her cheek. "As if I could ever hate you. I almost wish I'd been born a boy, now; then you could marry _me._ "

At that, she blushed, actually _blushed;_ and by that, I knew I had struck a chord in her. She did want me; I knew it from her lingering caresses and kisses over these last few weeks, the way she had touched me when we had helped each other dress. Now, however, she covered up her embarrassment by snatching a biscuit from the coffee table and nibbling on it slowly like some small, pretty animal.

I laid my hand on her knee. "But you're freezing! Shall I go and run the bath for you? I've given Ulla the day off since Father's away."

"I'll help." She sprung to her feet and took her suitcase. "I'm going to have to learn how to do it if I'm to be the mistress of the house, aren't I?"

For that, I smacked her on the ass, making her blush even more. "It's this way. Come on."

Of course, I had to come up with a good excuse to join her in the bath. Thankfully, the chilliness of the day worked in my favour when I explained to her that we only had a limited supply of hot water, and that I could use a bath myself. Underneath her polite exclamations of "Of course!" and "I won't mind!" I could sense that she was giddy, giddy from the very idea. Therefore, while the bathtub was filling up, I gave her a glass of brandy to relax her, to lower the last of her inhibitions. I glanced in the direction of the long mirror covering the wall opposite the tub and grinned. _Enjoy the show._

She swallowed her brandy so fast I poured her another one, and by the time we helped remove each other's girdles and brassieres, we were giggling into each other's mouths. "I'm not a lesbian," she murmured, "but you, Laura, you... you're so beautiful I just want to look at you. May I?"

"There's no harm in it," I purred and slipped off my panties. It worked every time: she, just like everyone else, gasped as she saw my shaven pussy. 

"But that's--"

"Takes ten minutes with a decent razor. But you have to soften the hair first with a bath, or creams. Would you like me to show you how to do it?"

"Oh, yes, um, I'm sure I wouldn't mind," she mumbled, finally realising she was staring, averting her gaze as we both descended into the tub. She adopted a pragmatic, casual tone. "But why would you shave it all off?"

"You'll find out," I said. "Do you want me to wash your back?"

"Oh, yes, please."

So I did. For long moments, we just bathed each other, lounged in each other's arms, in the warm water and the scents of lilies and roses. And all throughout, I told myself to forget the Laura that didn't enjoy being active with women and channeled Torsten the seducer instead. The thrill that went through my body as Birgitte leaned back in my arms and gazed at me adoringly, sighing, relaxing completely--oh, it was out of this world. She didn't protest as I cupped her breasts, massaged them; her pale pink nipples hardened underneath my hands and she quivered, her lashes falling to her cheeks.

"Do you want me to continue?" I asked, kissing her nose.

"Please," she said and captured my mouth in a kiss. She cupped my hands tighter around her breasts and squeezed so that the fat flesh spilled out from between my fingers; she moaned and my pussy clenched so hard my hips jerked against her back. I imagined Torsten, glued to the glass on the other side, staring down at us, his prick as hard as rock. Was he masturbating right now? Stroking his cock, willing himself not to come? The very thought made my pussy clench again and I hummed in delight, slipping one of my hands down Birgitte's belly. I brushed the very edges of her pubic hair with my fingertips, making her gasp in a most satisfactory fashion.

"Would you like me to show you how to shave, now?"

"Mm-hmm," she said and with a big slosh, she turned around in my arms, bolder, now. "What do I need to do?"

I unplugged the tub and got up. "Go and sit on the toilet. It'll be easier that way."

This was torture for her and I knew it: now, she could not hide her arousal, and I enjoyed her squirming as I made her spread her legs for me. We used two razors: I taught her to use her own at first and offered to shave the trickiest parts myself. By the time we got to that point, she was shaking, absolutely frantic. She dropped the razor from her hand, whimpered and grabbed the toilet seat as I spread her pussy--so pink, so shining, so plump--oh, the little bitch's was prettier than mine! I imagined Torsten's cock sinking past the fat lips and had to bite my tongue in order not to moan. God, but it was a beautiful pussy, the mound of it heavy as I pushed it up with my fingers and snicked off the hair at the top of the slit, just above the clitoris. 

I pretended to spread her just to check for last hairs, but I lifted the hood of her clitoris only in order to massage her through it. Her clitoris itself was now swollen, a dark, pomegranate red as it peeked out from its hiding place, like a little cock waiting to be sucked. Her folds were swollen, too, so wet she could no longer pretend: she moaned, panted, desperate. "God, Laura. You are terrible. You are wicked, so wicked--"

I shaved the last hairs off her perineum and put the razor away. Now, I just held her pussy open and grinned, inhaling her scent blatantly, so sweet, so alluring, so clean. "Would you like me to kiss it, Birgitte?"

"I've never--"

"That's all right. You just smell so good I would love to taste you. May I?" 

She bit her lip. "Please."

I massaged the top of her slit with both thumbs, framing her clitoris; she was now so wet her inner labia were gleaming, purpling, packed full of blood. She must've been hurting, so I took pity upon her and sucked her clitoris into my mouth. She shouted, her knees trembling around my head as I sucked her, licked her, she flowing sweet and rich into my mouth. I had never enjoyed kissing a pussy so much, but then this was the most delicious one I'd ever tasted, as sweet as mine, pure sugary perfection. I keened as I tasted her, sucked her fluids into my mouth--oh, such thick, clear fluids like egg white, nothing at all like the white foam I'd tasted on Anita. So few women were ever this clean, this sweet; I pushed my tongue as deep inside of her as I could in order to taste her fully, completely. Oh, to have had a cock to penetrate her with, to dip into her with, to _fuck her with_ \--with a groan, I pulled back, leaving her spread open, moving aside so that Torsten could see. 

She was dizzy, her eyes rolling; I didn't think she had come, but she pulled me into a kiss nevertheless, kissing me violently, pushing me down onto the floor. "Laura, Laura," she whimpered, "what are you doing to me?"

"Good things?" I said, ruffling her hair. 

"Oh, yes," she said and squirmed. 

"Would you like me to show you some more?"

"You bet." She took my hand to kiss the palm, but paused at my wrist. "What's that?"

"The bracelet?"

"No, this!" she ran her fingertips across the welts. "What happened to it?"

"That's what I meant to tell you about," I laughed and wrapped my legs around her, rubbing my pussy against her belly. "Can you keep a secret?"

"Anything. I owe you so much, Laura, I--" she babbled.

I put my finger to her lips. "Let's get back into the tub and I'll tell you."

I turned on the shower, then sat down in the tub and pulled her to sit in my lap, kissing her for long moments under the warm spray of water, making her ride my thigh. "Now, then," I purred into her mouth. "In case you _were_ out to seduce my father, there are a few things you must know about him. You see, he likes to leave _marks._ " 

Her eyes flew wide, but she said nothing.

"And you're in luck," I said, slipping my hand to her pussy, stroking it softly. "Because he likes his girls young. Blond. Voluptuous. Oh, and shaven, just like this."

"You're joking!"

"Oh, no. It's exactly as you think," I drawled, slipping two fingers inside of her--oh, not a virgin, that was a surprise! Nevermind; I leaned closer. "And let me tell you," I kissed into her mouth, "my Daddy is an _amazing_ fuck."

At that, I curled my fingers and she cried out in shock, broke the kiss and sobbed into my shoulder. I felt awful, wonderful, a molester, pleasure-shivers vibrating up and down my entire torso. My hand was now my cock, violating her, thrusting into her, her little pussy so wet around it and now, oh--now she moved her hips against it, not to escape but to fuck herself on my fingers, whimpering, clawing at my back. 

"You like that idea?" the beast in me hissed in her ear as I slipped my thumb over her clitoris. "Are you thinking about it right now? My Daddy fucking you as he fucked me? Holding you down by the wrists as he slides into your little pussy? Is that going to make you come?"

"Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God--"

"Oh, no," I laughed, spitting water from my mouth, kissing her violently. "God left you long ago. Who do you think it was that sent me? Hmm?" 

She looked at me, her arms around my neck, her face contorted as if she was weeping; perhaps she was. "I wished for you, prayed for you but I didn't know, I didn't know--"

"We've found you now, haven't we? There's a good girl, there's a good girl," I crooned and soothed her with kisses, Torsten's kisses, Torsten's words. "Now, tell me. Is your little pussy going to come for me?" I asked, twisting a third finger inside of her.

"Yes, I, oh--Laura, please--"

I reached deeper inside of her and found that soft, soft little spot just behind the pubic bone, just behind the clitoris and I stilled my hand. _This is for you, Torsten, you dirty old bastard; come, now, let that sperm splash the mirror, come._ I pushed up with my thigh, curled my fingers and _pressed._

"Come." 

And there, there, Birgitte wailed, her pussy clenching violently, sloshing around my fingers; her hips, her entire body shaking with the force of her release. She shouted so beautifully, so loudly, her voice so high; it echoed off the tiles of the bathroom, a thousand Birgittes breaking into a thousand orgasms all at once, beautiful, lost.

She was still shaking when I pulled her off myself and washed her clean. Her teeth were chattering as I helped her out of the tub and wrapped us both in heavy bathrobes, towels around our heads. I had lit a fire in the scarlet room and led her there, to more brandy, to warm blankets, to a bed so soft her little body sank into it like a stone. There, I held her, kissed her until she drifted off to sleep in my arms. 

***

When I was sure she was fast asleep, I slipped into the mirror room. Torsten lay there in the dark, still out of breath, his cock out of his trousers. He had, indeed, made a mess of the mirror; his cock was still so hard I took it into my mouth and sucked it, tasted the last drops of what I had milked out of it with today's show. I never said a word and neither did he as I climbed on top of him and satisfied myself with his cock. To think that I hadn't even thought of my own orgasm as I had taken Birgitte--how completely Torsten's spirit had possessed me! But now, the greed in my pussy awakened and I rode him and I rode him, each of us covering the other's mouth with a hand to muffle our cries. In secret, in silence we fucked, frenzied, wild; the only noise in the room was the slap of our flesh. Finally, finally he threw me down upon the bed and forced both of us to come, simultaneously, perfectly; he dug his nails into the welts on my wrists and drank my screams into his mouth. 

We lay there for a long while until I realised I had to go back to Birgitte before she woke up. Torsten, however, would have to remain in this room: if he so much as used the bathroom, Birgitte would notice. 

"Next time, we will both take her," I promised, kissing his belly before I took his softened cock into my mouth. 

"My perfect daughter," he whispered, ecstatic as he let his piss flow into my mouth. "My perfect, perfect little daughter."


	4. Chapter 4

After a week had passed, I got a serious case of cold feet. It was Birgitte's sixteenth birthday in three days, and Torsten and I were to share her then, but something in me recoiled from the very idea. 

Everything was, technically speaking, better than before. Torsten was no longer wildly jealous, Birgitte had been warm and sweet towards me and had been telephoning me incessantly whenever we were not together. 

And that was the problem. I'd had to work several long days in a row, and she would telephone me even at work. I had rented an office to better run the sprawling chaos that was Barring Industries, had hired secretaries and accountants for us and delegated some of our business to smaller executives, but I could never let the bastards out of my sight. I was stressed as hell by the time I got home, and the moment I lay down on the sofa and got my feet up, the telephone would ring again.

Birgitte was never unpleasant and would shower me with love, but I still felt drained by having to be there for her day and night. The playboy in me had started to fade, become distant--now, it became clear that I couldn't keep that mentality up twenty-four hours a day, no matter how hard I tried. Now that I had turned seductor, again I felt the little girl was starved. I found myself growing weak, prone to tears, and hated that in myself. And all because I didn't have enough time to relax, now, to simply sink into Torsten's arms and have the stress whipped out of me. 

Eventually, I took the receiver off the hook and collapsed onto the sofa, into Torsten's lap, weeping from sheer exhaustion. "I can't do this," I groaned. "You've seen what she does. She's a vampire. I want to have some time to myself, to spend it with you, to be rid of this _damned_ responsibility, having to exist for others."

"Shh." He petted my hair, adopting a reasonable tone, but underneath it I could hear he was tired, irritated, weary of my complaints. "Just a few days, now. You won't have to play the man to her once we take her, I promise you. I'll be there, remember?"

"But what if you will fall in love with her?" I sobbed, knowing even as I said it that I was insulting him, being a selfish little bitch, my reason clouded by pathetic self-pity. Still, the words kept spilling out, poisonous, my darkest, most absurd fears falling bitter from my lips. "And then you'll leave me, and I will have to manage all by myself--"

He yanked my head up by the hair and slapped me once, twice, so hard my ears rang.

I deserved it. I realised this was exactly why I had been pushed into saying such stupid things: my subconscious could not take it any longer and needed him like this, needed him to hurt me to snap me out of it. Words would not do; only blows would be enough. My malaise had reached such a point that I literally needed to have it beaten out of me, needed to have it washed away by his discipline, drowned in pain, that headiest of narcotics. I looked at him, hot tears running down my face as he stared at me sternly, his finger in my face, every inch the concerned father.

"Don't you ever dare say that to me again, Laura."

"Then call this whole thing off. Let's forget about her, stop answering her calls," I babbled. 

He slapped me again, then grabbed me by the chin and measured me with his eyes. "You're the one who wanted us to seduce her. I'm not going to let you back away now. We'll have her on Saturday and see what happens after." 

"But that's just it," I hissed, a part of me still angry, still panicking. "You don't care about how I feel; you don't care that she's eating me alive. You just want to fuck her, don't you? You just want to have two girls at once."

"Yes. As a matter of fact, I do." He shook my head by the hair, his smile cold and wide. "I've more than deserved it for putting up with your little games. You've played with each other's pussies long enough; now it's my turn."

"But she wants my _soul,_ don't you understand?" I cried. 

He slapped me again, now snarling in my face. "Do you think I'd ever allow her to take something that belongs to _me?_ "

And with that, he took my lower lip between his teeth and bit me, bit me until I screamed. By the time he let go, I was dizzy from pain. I dangled there from his hand and sobbed and sobbed, watched as a drop of blood fell from my lip onto the white sofa, only to be dissolved by my tears.

"This is what you get when you fall in love," he murmured, wiping his mouth, and I didn't know whether the look on his face was pity or spite. 

"It isn't love," I murmured, swallowing my tears. "I thought it was, but it's just a crush, a stupid crush." I couldn't breathe; my ribcage seemed to be shrinking in on itself, crushing my heart. I had thought of it for days, now--how in the hell could someone who made you so happy make you so miserable? Was this what ordinary romances were like? I swallowed and sucked at my lip, swallowing thickly. "I don't love her," I whispered, fully realising it now, the futility of other loves in comparison to Torsten. "I've only ever loved you, Daddy."

"Come here." He let go of my hair and pulled me into a softer kiss, sighing into my mouth. "I hereby release you from all obligations, my child. You don't have to pretend to be me any more."

I clung to his jacket and murmured against his shoulder. "I never pretended. You were inside of me. You still are." 

He hugged me tight against his chest and petted my hair. "Only you're the female half of me, the woman I'd always wanted to be," he whispered with such tenderness it made me ache. "That's what I've always loved about you. It was stupid of me to try and force you to be anything else."

"Don't think I didn't enjoy being the man, though," I laughed, a little hysterically. "I never truly had, not until that day in the bathroom, you know." 

He pulled back to kiss me again. "I'm glad. But promise me one thing."

"Yes?"

He cupped my face in his hands and looked into my eyes, his smile soft, warm. "On Saturday, you will both kneel at my feet, as planned. I will make you love it, I promise you. And we don't ever have to see her again, if that's what you wish. If she gives you trouble, any trouble at all, I will sort it out." He pinched my cheek paternally. "All right?"

"All right," I said and kissed his hand.

***

He worked on my malaise for hours that night, like a surgeon performing a delicate operation to remove a diseased growth. As soon as he'd moved in, he'd had extra hooks installed into the ceilings in every room--ostensibly for chandeliers, but in truth, each and every hook was meant for me. Tonight, he brought out the rope and suspended me by the wrists from the hook in the bathroom. And by that, I knew how serious he was: when no other room would do, I knew he had the most extreme methods in mind. Extreme, because I needed them; extreme, because he needed an outlet for his anger; extreme, because he needed to prove the depth of his love for me. 

He brought out the Indian whip and weighed it, running its single tail through his palm. It was his cruellest instrument, one that could flay skin off bones and therefore required absolute precision if used upon a lover. It was no ordinary whip, no, a ritual tool of sorts: one which he had reserved only for days like these. It could maim me permanently, and the fear this whip inspired was part of its power, a power that demanded absolute trust, absolute submission to the one wielding it. 

"You need this," he whispered as he lifted the whip to my lips. 

"Yes," I whispered as I kissed it, kissed it in acquiescence, in humility born of the deepest gratitude.

By the fifth stroke of the whip, my tears had dried. By the tenth, I lost all sight and hearing; all I could see was the vast blue of his eyes, his blue carrying me, his blue enveloping me, his blue lifting me to the vault of heaven. At the fifteenth stroke, I fell into sweet, complete unconsciousness.

I don't know how long I spent that way, but it must have been a while. My awakening was slow, brought on by a sense of pressure inside of me, a warm, heavy heat as circulation returned to my limbs. As my awareness slowly returned, I realised he had released me from the ropes and laid me down on my side on the floor. He was kneeling behind me, his arm straining, reaching downwards and it was then that I understood what the weight in my hips was: he was fucking my ass with his fingers. But wait, no--he twisted his arm and in my haze, I couldn't even feel any shock as I realised he had _his entire hand inside of me._

If my entire body had fallen slack, it would have been easy, the way a doctor could insert his hand inside a patient under anaesthesia; my stomach reeled. I hadn't taken his entire hand since we'd been parted, and the weight of it, the stretch of it threatened to plunge me into unconsciousness once more. To think that he had planned this in advance, had perhaps been planning it for weeks, and had saved it up for a day like this, oh--I wanted to retch, wanted to orgasm so hard I exploded; I clawed at the floor and looked up at him, groaning weakly. 

He just smiled gently and pressed a kiss to my hip. "How does that feel?"

"I love you," I slurred.

"The feeling is mutual." He pulled out his hand and kissed my asshole, kissed it with his tongue, moaning into me in delight. "You look beautiful." He wedged his hand and twisted it inside of me once more, so easily I could only wail as I was stretched, filled. "So beautiful, my child. So beautiful."

Cold sweat broke out on my skin; I shivered upon the tiles. "You're pressing on my bladder, Daddy," I said, and even through my delirium, even without looking at him, I knew what those words did to him. 

"Really?" he said, sweetly, pulling his hand back a little and fluttering his fingers against the back of my womb. "When I press here?"

I gasped and jerked, a little drop of piss escaping my urethra at the pressure. "Yes, there," I gasped, jerking again, helpless as he laughed and laughed.

"Are you going to give your Daddy a little present, then? A little potful of gold?"

A cry shattered against my teeth. "Yes." Yes, I would reward my Daddy; it was the least I could do for what he had given to me, for how well he had loved me tonight.

"You'd better let me catch it, then," he murmured against my buttock. 

Never taking his hand out of me, he helped me onto all fours, lying down underneath my hips himself so that he could gift my pussy with a soft kiss. He spent a long time toying with my ass, sucking the wetness off the lips of my pussy, moaning into me in delight. "Come on," he murmured, and through my legs, I could see that he had now taken his cock out of his trousers and was stroking it with his other hand. "Give Daddy a little piss." 

I closed my eyes and breathed, breathed as deep as I could; it took me half a dozen inhalations and exhalations before I could force myself to squeeze out even the smallest of trickles. He cried out in ecstasy as my piss hit his lips; when he noticed how short the spurt was, he withdrew his hand a little to allow me to give him more. 

"Come on, there's a good girl, there's a good girl, piss, piss," he hissed, moving his fingers in a fucking rhythm now, drumming my insides with them. It was that hiss that did it; he made me shiver all over at his shamelessness, and now he hooked his fingers and made me piss, piss, burst out in golden splashes all over his face. He moaned, keened into my pussy, the forceful exhalations of his noises making me spray even more until his forehead and hair were dripping with it. His keen rose to a scream as he jerked underneath me: he ejaculated so violently his sperm hit my buttocks, splashing warm all over my skin. 

I buried my face in my arms and sobbed, sobbed as he kept on fucking me with his hand, pushing me into the softest, vastest, red-and-black-and-electric orgasm, seconds after his own. With each of his sucks on my clitoris, with each cruel tug of his fingers at my hole, I kept coming and coming, not knowing whether I was pissing or ejaculating or both; all I could feel was wetness, a warm sea of utter bliss. I cried out until I was hoarse, grinding my pussy into his face, shuddering until I finally collapsed on top of him.

We lay there on the floor for long moments, in silence. I was still jerking, still twitching all over as he slid his hand out and brought it to my mouth. Without even looking at it to check for cleanliness, I kissed it, licked it, licked all of my sweetness off it in utter worship. I clasped his arm against my chest, hugging it close, letting him smear my face and my hair with his hand. I whimpered as my ass squelched, farting out the lubricant, all the air he'd fucked into it with his fist: he just brought his mouth to my ass and sucked out each gust, each disgusting noise, his wet cock jerking as he swallowed them all. 

"Thank you, Daddy," I murmured, the words thick and heavy in my mouth. 

Gently, in silence, he washed us both, then carried me to his own bed. There, he held me, spooned me underneath the thick down bedcovers. My Daddy was but a vast warmth around me, against the sweet, dull ache in my stomach, my guts. He hugged me so tight my breathing slowed down, until I drifted off to sleep in his arms, his hand clasped over my heartbeat. 

***

It took us quite a while before we managed to lure Birgitte away from her own birthday party. As hostess, she had to entertain everyone, even the dullest of socialites. However, she spent so much time with me that I felt a wicked delight in taking in all the jealous glares I got from the social climbers and has-beens. I wore a long dress of white satin, just as she did; we'd been to the same beauty salon and the same hairdresser that day so that by the time we'd emerged into the restaurant arm in arm, you could have indeed mistaken us for a pair of sisters. I had forgotten all about the stress she had been giving me: flying high on the bubbles of champagne and a dash of cocaine, I felt nothing but affection and lust for her, purring on her arm, watching Torsten watch us from a few feet away.

He leaned back against the wall and measured Birgitte from head to toe, smoking languorously. Birgitte raised her glass to him and drank; from our hints over the past few days, she knew tonight was going to be the night he finally fucked her. Or she fucked him, I thought: she met his gaze boldly, and as if by accident, let a trail of champagne escape the corner of her mouth. She made no move to mop it, and Torsten realised this was his cue: he took out his handkerchief, and in a most modest fashion, dried Birgitte's neck and cheek. 

"But, Miss Lind, any lower and you would've ruined your present!" he laughed with a twinkle in his eye. 

I'd just wrapped said present around her neck. It was a wide, blue satin ribbon with a large bauble hanging from it, a blue and white porcelain sphere the size of an egg, with golden, raised whorls curling all over it in delicate Rococo. There was a bell inside the sphere that tinkled when its wearer moved--it had been made for some Frenchwoman or another before the pretty neck she'd hung it upon had been sliced in two by the guillotine. And now, as Birgitte laughed with Torsten, the bell tinkled again. "I feel like a cat, now," she said, "or a Christmas tree."

Torsten licked her with his gaze once more and purred, shifting from one foot to another, slinking his hips outrageously. "Oh, a cat, most definitely. And a pedigree one at that, if I may say so. Would you like to dance?"

"Why not?" she said and took his hand. 

I swallowed down her champagne as well as mine as I watched them move onto the dance floor. I'd already tired myself out dancing that night, and wanted to save some energy for later. However, Birgitte danced as if she hadn't a care in the world: she twirled and spun and gyrated to the pulsing, hot jazz, dancing as black women did, rocking her hips and breasts boldly. 

Torsten was content to follow her, to meet her movements now and then, to spin her: he danced much more slowly around her, capturing her against his body and then releasing her once more. But oh, the way he clutched her when he caught her again, his eyes staring deep into hers, his fingers like claws, dragging up her bare back; I shivered in lust at the sight. _Is this how we look like when he dances me?_ I thought. Instead of jealousy, I felt a flash of narcissistic, masturbatory delight as I watched their bodies colliding, separating, fusing and separating again, warming each other for fucking.

When they had finished, they were both sweaty: Torsten offered her his handkerchief, then used it to mop sweat off his own face. I could see he was inhaling the scent of her breasts off the handkerchief, far too unsubtle a gesture for a public event. I sensed that if we didn't leave soon, he would pounce everyone in the room and we would have an orgy on our hands. Or, more likely, we'd get arrested. 

"Come on," I murmured and laid my hand on Birgitte's waist. "There's more dope at our place."

"Just a minute."

Quickly, she twittered around the room, saying goodnight to the most important guests, making excuses about having to stay at our apartment because of the state of her bathroom. Finally, finally she managed to escape. We were out, out in the cold air, wrapped in our furs and hats, all of us dashing towards the taxi Torsten had called for us. The sky was clear and the stars were bright; I took one last look at them and couldn't remember the last time I had been this happy. What the hell had I been worrying about? Perhaps it had been premenstrual madness, I thought to myself as I climbed into the taxi, my breasts and my pelvis heavy, aching. Nevermind; at least my body was at its most orgasmic, at its most sensitive right now, perfect for tonight. 

Torsten sat in the middle, Birgitte and I on either side of him; we caressed each other shamelessly over his body while he was content to watch. We laced our fingers together over his chest and exchanged champagne-sweet kisses but an inch from his face; when the car jostled, his moustache scratched my cheek and even that small touch was enough to bring a hiss out of him. I chuckled into Birgitte's mouth and slid our joined hands lower, lower and it was just as I had thought: he was hard, and he bit his lip so as not to make noise as I cupped our hands over his erection. None of us said a word; the only sound in the backseat was that of our breathing, the tinkle of Birgitte's bauble. We continued thus for the rest of the journey, Birgitte and I clasping him, massaging his cock, wetting each other's pussies with our kisses.

By the time we'd made it to our apartment, Birgitte's lipstick had worn off from kissing, and I noticed the same thing had happened to me. While Torsten went off to get the champagne, we cooled off for a while in the hallway, reapplying our lipstick in the mirror. "I'm going to kiss all of yours off soon anyway," she said, "but that's why it's so fun to put on, isn't it?"

"I'll make a mess of you," I hissed in her ear, smacked her ass and she could not hold back a squeak of delight. 

I took her hand and led her to the scarlet room, to the green plush sofa by the fire. This time, we sat Birgitte between the two of us, I on her left, Torsten on her right. I could smell her pussy, could smell mine, could see Torsten was still hard in his trousers. Yet, he insisted on offering us cigarettes, champagne, sweets--he was such a glutton for anticipation. He hadn't fucked me for two days, now, and I thought how full his balls must have been again, and which one of us would receive his sperm first, and where. My pussy? Hers? Would he dare fuck her in the ass tonight? Or me, while Birgitte was watching? My nipples hardened and pointed through my dress as I calculated the possibilities.

"So, Birgitte," Torsten said through a cloud of smoke, crossing his thin thighs and rocking his foot. "Tell us about your experiences with men." Blunt and straight to the point, exactly what he was good at.

Birgitte blushed and brought her hand to her bauble. "There's not much to tell. And you couldn't call them men. Just boys." As she murmured that, she looked her age, young, fragile: she closed her knees in a sudden, chaste gesture.

I refused to allow her that and slid my hand to her thigh. "Has a man ever been able to give you an orgasm?" 

Now, she even made a noise and flushed utterly scarlet, the bauble ringing and ringing as she squirmed in her seat.

"Be honest," Torsten said and stumped his cigarette. He scooped up some cocaine from a silver tray and lifted it to Birgitte's nose. She inhaled it quickly, greedily, obviously grateful for not having to answer immediately. When she still tarried, Torsten took a few more fingerfuls and offered them to her until she relaxed and melted into the cushions, her head lolling against the back of the sofa. 

"No," she finally drawled at him in challenge, playing with his cufflinks. "Do you think you could give me one?" 

Torsten burst into a delighted, purring laughter and moved closer to her, lifting the hem of her dress from the floor, up, up, up to her knees, then let his hand rest there. "But my dear Miss Lind, I would _love_ to."

Birgitte let her head loll in my direction, a teasing twinkle in her eyes. "Your dad is a wicked man; absolutely wicked. Do you think I should let him?"

I slid my hand beside Torsten's and pushed her dress all the way up to her hips, loving the way she shivered under my palm. "Not only do I think you should," I murmured against her lips and swallowed the squeak she made as I pressed my hand to the wet silk of her panties. "I am telling you to."

She whimpered and I kissed her again; she made a mock struggle, but I could tell she was helping me as I pulled those panties off. I could feel Torsten was spreading her legs, spreading them; he whistled loudly as he looked between them. "My, my."

I lifted her dress to have a look myself. "So you took my advice," I laughed as I slid my hand to her smooth mound. "Feels so much more sensitive without the hair, doesn't it?"

"Yes!" she yelped and tried to close her legs as I started to stroke the top of her slit, but Torsten held her open.

"Do you want us to continue?" I asked. I rubbed her pussy more violently, now, then slapped it, making her jerk so that her bell rang and rang and rang. 

"Please," she panted, trying to grab a hold of my shoulder, devouring my mouth with kisses. "Please, continue."

Again, Torsten laughed, grabbing her by the hips and arranging her on the sofa so that she was lying down on it, with her head in my lap. He lifted her legs and made to wrap them around his shoulders, but changed his mind at the last minute. He bent Birgitte in half instead, offering me her legs: I took my cue and hooked my arms around them, underneath her knees. Her breathing grew shallow, rapid as I compressed the air out of her lungs this way, her plump pussy now exposed, pushed out for Torsten to admire.

"It's such a pretty little thing you've got here," he crooned, a pitying note to his voice. Casually, he dipped his fingers between her folds and drew a glimmering strand of arousal from her pussy. "Whyever did you keep this from me for so long?"

"I'm sorry," she whimpered, her hair tickling my breasts. 

Theatrically, he closed his eyes and inhaled her, long, over and over, savouring her scent like a perfumier. His eyes fluttered open only halfway as he hissed and leaned down to taste her pussy, she crying out into my dress, he moaning loudly into her mound. My own pussy pulsed uncontrollably as I watched him bury his face in her, lapping at her like an animal: as his nose and cheeks sunk into the fat, white mound, I whimpered, too, thinking I would come right there and then. I desperately wanted to touch myself, but had to keep holding Birgitte's legs open. 

He heard my whimper and leaned in to kiss me, offering me her taste. It astounded me--how could a girl possibly taste this sweet? Had she been daubing herself with sugar? "She smuggles candy in her panties, too," I whispered as I sucked his tongue, his lips, he laughing into my mouth at our private joke.

He reached in to free my breasts from my dress to better squeeze them, to pinch my nipples. "And how is _your_ little pussy, my child?" 

"It's very, very wet, Daddy," I crooned in my little girl's voice and stole another kiss. I let go of him and turned to Birgitte, who was now looking at me in shock. I smiled at her, but it was Torsten I was directing my words at, still in that soft, cooing child's voice. "I want to see you play with her pussy, Daddy."

He squeezed himself through his trousers and hissed. "Oh, girls, girls. I will play with you both, but you must play nice. Come, Laura. Give your friend's pussy a little kiss while Daddy plays with it, will you? There's a good girl."

Gladly, I did as I was told. I leaned forwards and laid my mouth over her pussy, licking it as best as I could in this position. Torsten lifted my hair away from my face as I lapped at her, sucked her clitoris; Birgitte wailed underneath me, pushing my dress up in turn, clawing at my thighs. "Please, oh, God, please--"

At that, Torsten raised an eyebrow and sucked on two of his fingers, then slid them slowly, easily inside Birgitte's pussy. She shuddered underneath me, stuttered a series of cries; my bare pussy hovered over her head and even if I couldn't see her face, I knew she was staring at it, tempted, struggling against the last of her inhibitions. 

Brutally, I sat down on her face, smearing her mouth with the sweet juices of my pussy, with the glory of lesbianism. I was angry at her having denied herself this long, furious from my own arousal; I fucked her face, fucked it, took it with my pussy and my ass. She ululated into my pussy as Torsten fucked hers with his fingers; the wet, sticky noises her pussy made as he assaulted her with his hand were enough to bring me to the brink. But now it was she who came: she convulsed and wailed and I lifted my pussy to give her air, to let her shout her release out, scream it out, her cries broken into pieces by the slick-slick-slick of Torsten's hand still fucking her fast, merciless, all through her orgasm.

Torsten yanked his fingers out with a slurping noise and Birgitte groaned, heaved underneath me. Equally merciless, I sat on her face with all my weight, violating her mouth with my pussy. "Suck it," I panted, desperate for orgasm, "suck, suck it, suck it--"

It was then that Torsten reached over me and pushed his wet fingers into my ass. I screamed, my face pressed into Birgitte's pussy, my ear, my hair wet from her juices, coming and coming as he hooked his fingers inside of me. I jerked so hard I lost my balance and slid off the sofa, still quivering in aftershocks as I collapsed onto the rug in a heap. 

"Are you all right?" Birgitte laughed and joined me on the rug. 

"Yes, I'm all right," I laughed back, blowing strands of hair from my face. 

Torsten stood above us, still immaculate in his tuxedo and black tie, sucking both our tastes off his fingers, his eyes glittering in the firelight. "Enjoying yourselves, ladies?"

"Oh, he is _wonderful,_ " Birgitte crooned and laid her head in my lap. "Does he do anything more?"

"You talk as if he was a lapdog." I played with her hair, tugging it a little until she winced. 

Torsten tutted, pulled up his trouser legs and squatted in front of us. "I can do much more than that, but in my own time."

"You aren't even undressed yet!" Birgitte exclaimed, the very picture of the spoiled brat.

He raised an eyebrow at that, got up and lit a cigarette. "You two aren't undressed either," he said. "Perhaps if you did something about that, I might even join you." He sat down on the sofa and leaned forwards, his hands between his knees. "I'm waiting."

Birgitte and I took one look at each other and attacked each other's clothes. Soon, we were yelping, tussling, tickling each other, wrinkling the rug, stealing kisses as we pulled our dresses off each other. Then our stockings, garters; she made to remove her bauble as well, but Torsten shook his head and clicked his tongue. "Leave it on."

I knew he would say that; the moment we had picked the gift we had thought of her wearing it during sex. It tinkled beautifully as she took her hands from her neck; spontaneously, she went to him and knelt in front of him. Such an instinctive gesture of submission; oh, she was learning fast. I followed suit, both of us kneeling at his feet just like he'd wanted us to. 

"Like two little odalisques," he murmured as he stumped his cigarette, gifting each of us with a tobacco-blue kiss. His eyes were fond, adoring as he took in the sight of us by the firelight, caressing our breasts, our hips, our bellies. I could see we were both covered in goosebumps: the entire room smelled of our pussies, now, heavy and sweet. Again, he kissed both of us, slow, long, then hooked two fingers under each of our collars. His eyes flashed cold and with a sudden hiss, he yanked us towards himself so that we stumbled, choked.

"I can do anything I like to you two, can't I?" he said slowly, looking at me, then Birgitte, then me again. 

I nodded, unhesitant as a great weight slid off my chest. I no longer had to be active; he had finally taken charge. Adoring, I melted under his gaze. "Yes, Daddy."

Birgitte, however, cast her eyes down. She was distraught, her eyes filled with tears of shock. She was shaking all over, her breathing so uneven she could not form words. Torsten pulled her closer and kissed her again, unhurried, with such skill that soon she was whimpering into his mouth. When he pulled back, Birgitte's eyes were glazed, looking within. I knew that look, that exact look because I had lived that moment: the little girl who was sick and tired of being _nice,_ damnation blazing in her eyes as she told herself to reject her shame, reject her upbringing, reject all that was good and moral and plunge herself into the glorious sins on offer. 

He looked at her and waited, waited. "I would like it very much if you answered me, Birgitte."

"Yes," she choked, her lashes falling to her cheeks, tears quivering upon them, then sliding down, down her cheeks. But when she looked up, there was a new glow in her eyes; with those tears, she had now shed her shame. "Yes," she whispered again. _"Master."_

At that, something in me cracked, split open and turned me molten on the inside. Tears flowed down my face, too, in sympathy, in full understanding, in full sisterhood. And Torsten, oh, Torsten, how perfect he was as he now smiled at her, truly worthy of that title, like no other man could ever be. Softly, gently, he spread his tongue wide and licked the tears off Birgitte's face, a final consumption of her chastity, a deflowering, a ceremonial acceptance of the new soul into the Devil's fold.

By now, both of us were shaking and he drew us close, so that our heads rested upon his thighs. There, he caressed our hair, wiped our tears, kissed us over and over. "There, there, my girls, there, there." Between kisses and caresses, he offered us more champagne, cocaine, marmelade sweets until we finally calmed down and leaned on him, curled up against his legs. 

"Never let it be said I don't take good care of my pets," he said and caressed our hair once more. He turned his caresses longer, more lascivious, guiding our hands to his groin. "I've got another treat for you girls right here, but you must share it equally. One half for each. Do you understand?"

We nodded. I was the one to undo his trousers; I knew how to tuck in the folds of his fly so that his balls rested comfortably upon them, lifted up by the fabric in the way I knew he liked. He caressed my cheek tenderly for this gesture, then guided both of us to kiss his cock. I could tell Birgitte had never done this before; she kissed his cock so hesitantly, surprised at the way it felt against her lips, then bolder as she seemed to enjoy his scent, his taste, the softness of his skin. Soon, she was moaning in delight, I laughing at her moans. When Birgitte finally dipped her tongue into his slit to taste the fluid gathered there, Torsten gasped and his head fell back; he was panting at the ceiling, entranced by the pleasure we were now giving him. 

I purred and joined Birgitte in kissing, sucking the head of his cock; gently, I stroked the root, the balls, coaxing out more pre-ejaculate. He always tasted so heavenly, now even sweeter thanks to the saccharine, and I wanted to make sure Birgitte wouldn't forget his taste too soon. Even more, I wished he were naked so I could kiss him between the buttocks, lick his asshole--the very thought of it made me claw at his trousers, eager to undress him so I could do exactly that. Birgitte joined me and he didn't resist, just groaned in lazy satisfaction as we pulled his clothes off him and joined him on the sofa. 

Again, he hissed and tugged us by our collars. He laid down on his side and guided Birgitte's mouth to his cock and my mouth to his ass. Birgitte didn't obey him immediately; instead, her eyes widened as she saw me spread Torsten's buttocks and lick his asshole, the way I relished the task. Torsten shook as he held his ass open for me; he buried his face into his arm and let out a series of whimpers, pushing keenly against my tongue. Birgitte's bauble tinkled again as he pulled her closer, his voice tremulous from pleasure even as he guided his cock to her mouth. "Suck it. As wet as you can, as deep as you can. And watch your teeth." 

"Yes, Master," she whispered and I felt that whisper echo all through Torsten's body, felt him clench and shiver again at the title. I loved the taste of sweat in the hollows of his thighs, on his ass, slick between his buttocks now that he'd shaved himself in preparation for tonight. He hadn't played with himself for a while and his hole was a little smoother than usual; I hungered for the old pussy and dared spread him with my hands so that I could feel the little folds purse around the tip of my tongue. He moaned once more and there, there, he opened for me: his little pussy sucked upon my tongue and in turn, I fucked it as deep as I could. I paused only to roll and smack my tongue against my palate, to swirl the deep, rich taste of his ass in my mouth, savouring it like the finest of wines.

By now, he was swearing, groaning loudly; Birgitte's bauble rang constantly, now, with her gags and her coughs. I glanced at her from between Torsten's legs and saw that her makeup had run completely and that she was drooling, strings of saliva hanging off her chin; she was beautiful, so beautiful my pussy clenched in sadistic delight. Her first time sucking a man and already she was giving him what he loved most: the little girl debauched, destroyed, savaged by his cock. I pulled back for breath and had to slip my hand to my pussy, moaning myself. 

Torsten, however, noticed this: groaning, he pulled his cock out of Birgitte's mouth with a wet smack, then took both of us by the hair. "No playing with yourselves unless I tell you to." He was heaving, his wet cock slapping against his stomach, strings of Birgitte's spit dangling off it. "I think it's high time we retreated to the mirror room. I want you to see yourselves," he said, shaking us both by the hair until we whimpered, "see what a pair of little sluts you really are."

And at that, he threw us down onto the floor. When I tried to get up, he put his foot on my chest and pinned me down, pressing until I choked. My heart pounded against his foot as he leaned down, down, putting more and more of his weight upon me; I thought he would break my sternum any moment and I panicked. Yet, he only leaned down to pick up one of Birgitte's stockings, one of mine. 

He gestured to Birgitte. "Come here."

Deftly, he tied the end of each stocking around our collars, each of us now on a makeshift leash. He laughed and shook his head at his own ingenuity, at what we must have looked like: two ruined girls with their faces wet, their pussies wet, staring up at him in bafflement. 

He grinned and yanked on the stockings so that we fell onto our hands and knees. "Come on, then."

With carpet-burned knees, we made it through the hallway and finally ascended to the bed. I observed Birgitte closely as she took in her surroundings: she flushed all over as she saw herself, us, the entire scene with her own eyes. The decadence of the sight was enough to make my pussy pulse once more: a man regal, tall, erect, with two naked beauties at his feet. The tyrant and his slaves, so many of us in the mirrors that for a brief while, they created the illusion of a sultan and his harem, a sea of flesh stretching into infinity.

It was then that he started to slap that flesh, slap our thighs, our buttocks, our breasts, sending us tossing and howling upon the sheets. He looped the stockings around his left wrist so that we couldn't run away and kept slapping us until our flesh jiggled in the mirrors, until he had turned us pink and red all over. Finally, once we were all breathless, he guided us to bend over in front of the mirror, just as he had done to me on the day of his arrival. Two wide, round asses mottled with red handprints, two plump pussies, two pink little assholes side by side, presented to him in offering. 

"That's better," he purred, letting go of the stockings for a brief moment. "Look at what a pretty pair you make, look," he said as he leaned over us, spreading a buttock with each hand, kissing the small of my back. Both of us were panting; Birgitte even covered her face with her hands, but eventually forced herself to look. 

"Six little holes for me to fuck tonight," he crooned, spreading our pussies with his hands, "and to think I've barely even started." He started to rub our pussies until we were both shaking; I bit my lip out of spite, so as not to show him how much I was enjoying it, and partially to let Birgitte's moans flow into his ears uninterrupted, just as our juices were now flowing down his fingers. Torsten slapped her ass, slapped her pussy; once her cries were loud enough, he returned his fingertips to her clitoris. "I think we should let the birthday girl have my cock in her pussy first. What do you think, Laura?"

"Absolutely, Daddy," I said and sat down, helping Torsten arrange Birgitte down on the bed. Again, I laid her head in my lap, this time far more comfortable than we'd been on the sofa. Tenderly, I brushed hair away from Birgitte's face and kissed her. "You'll love it," I whispered, in the manner of a little girl sharing a secret with another. And louder, so that Torsten could definitely hear me: "Daddy's cock feels ever so good when he fucks my pussy." I reached for her clitoris and rubbed it until she started to squirm, and kept on kissing her. "You do want his cock in your pussy, don't you?"

"Yes," Birgitte gasped, out of breath as she broke the kiss, her body straining underneath my fingertips. She lifted her gaze to Torsten, who was now kneeling between her legs, stroking his cock and smirking at me in adoration. "Please."

"Mm-hmm?" he murmured, giving her pussy a long lick, another. "What's that you say?"

"Please, Master. Please put your cock in my pussy."

"This cock, right here?" he said, his playful fatherly voice so perfect it made shivers run up and down my spine. He rubbed the head of his cock between the lips of her pussy and pretended to be shocked. "But it's so tiny, Birgitte. A grown man's cock in a little girl's pussy, like that? When you haven't even got hair down there yet?"

At that, Birgitte moaned so loudly she threw her head back, shaking so much I took her to be close to orgasm just from his words--and no wonder. I squeezed her breasts, kneaded them, pinched them. "Answer him."

"Please," she wailed. "Please, Master. Please fuck my pussy."

He tutted and slapped her pussy with his cock. "But I'm going to split you in half."

By now, Birgitte was delirious, staring up at him, lifting her legs and spreading them wide. "Then split me," she whimpered, shaking so much her bauble was ringing with her every breath. "Please."

"Well, then," he said, again in that pitying croon of his, "since you ask so nicely."

He started to push inside and Birgitte's bauble stopped tinkling. She stilled completely, her chest unmoving underneath my hands, her eyes fluttering shut. Torsten didn't tell her to relax, didn't tell her to breathe, no; he was relishing the violence of the sight, her very stiffness, the illusion of taking her by force. Perhaps she hurt; it was likely, considering how big he was, and it was clear that this pain, real or imagined was what now made Torsten groan deep in his chest as he dipped his cock in and out of her, in and out of her. Mesmerised, I watched as he split the fat peach of Birgitte's pussy, such a dark, angry red hardness sinking inside such a delicate, pale and pink softness. 

I shuddered, imagining myself in her place: the moment, the trance of it so perfect it was as if his cock had been sinking deep inside of my pussy, too. And there--oh, yes, that moment arrived--the moment the head of his cock hit her womb, when his cock was only halfway in, her pussy not stretched enough yet to accommodate its full length. That flash of pain, definitely real now, Birgitte's eyes snapping open wide. It was now I who moaned, moaned where Birgitte couldn't, pleaded for gentleness when she was too overwhelmed to do so. Yet I did not use words; I only leaned towards him and kissed him, stroked his hair, his shoulders, slowed him down with my caresses.

He moaned into my mouth and kissed me back, caressed me back; he shook as he gathered my hair into his hands and sucked upon my tongue, still rocking into Birgitte. In this moment of pure corruption, of our sharing this girl, I felt his love so deeply I felt a subtle orgasm expanding, radiating through me, an orgasm spiritual rather than physical. He pulled back and looked at me, his eyes suddenly so vulnerable: he shivered and moaned, glanced down at his cock, then back at me. He tried to say something, but couldn't; he just kept on moving inside Birgitte, and I could feel her relaxing underneath us, now. I clasped the back of Torsten's head and gave him one more deep kiss, loving him with my mouth until he, too, relaxed and melted once more.

I turned my focus back to Birgitte; I leaned down and stroked her pussy again, then kissed her. 

"Better?" I asked, spreading moisture onto her clitoris. 

"Yes," she smiled and nodded, groaning in delight, then turned towards Torsten. "It feels wonderful."

"Does it, now?" he grinned and leaned down to kiss her in turn, nipping at her lips. "Why is that?"

She wrapped her legs around him and pulled him closer, mock-whispering, her own voice now very girlish after she'd seen how it stirred him. "It's ever so big, Master," she said, offering her mouth for more of his bites, rocking her hips back onto his thrusts. 

"And you like a big cock in your little pussy, do you?" he asked, combing his fingers through her hair, devouring her mouth as he speeded up his thrusts, rolling his hips in a way that made her wail underneath him. "You like it when I do that? When I'm really deep inside of you? Hmm?"

"Yes, Master! Please, oh, please--" she buried her face in his shoulder and sobbed. "Please, don't stop."

With a growl, he reared back, forcing himself to stop kissing her so that he could take her legs and lift them over his shoulders. "You want me to keep fucking you? Like this?"

"Yes!" she cried, and as I attacked her breasts again, she screamed it even louder. "Yes!"

"Rub your little pussy. Look me in the eye. Look me in the eye as you come on my cock."

Her only answer was a mewl; he bent her double and stared at her, clasping her face. His face was contorted from effort, red from heat; he was snorting, huffing so that spit beaded upon his lips, his moustache. Tinkle-tinkle-tinkle went Birgitte's necklace, slick-slick-slick her pussy as she stroked it, a piercing shriek rising from her throat even as she bit her lip. It was a scream of terror and orgasm all at once, Torsten slamming into her with slow, long thrusts so brutal they sank her into the bed. And all throughout, he kept staring into her eyes and she stared back, convulsing so violently it was as if she were having a fit of some kind. Her noises became scattered, bubbling out of her mouth, bursting out of her mouth in torrents every time he slammed his full weight into her. Her teeth chattered as she let go, her legs shaking as they fell open around his arms, and finally, she fell completely slack in my lap, her eyes rolling back in her head. 

With a grunt, Torsten kept on fucking her, she as limp as a rag doll in our arms, and for a while I was sure she had lost consciousness. Her eyes remained flipped, her head lolling off my thigh, the little bell ringing, ringing, ringing with each one of Torsten's thrusts. _This is how he'd fuck a corpse,_ I thought, delirious; _this is how he'd fuck a woman he'd just murdered._ When ordinary perversions would no longer be enough, is this what he would do to me, murder me for the simple pleasure of fucking my dead body? Because that's what I now saw in Birgitte and I reeled, imagining myself a corpse in his hands, cold and dead as he shot his seed inside of my body. And in my madness, the champagne and the cocaine and the sex singing in my blood, I thought _a happy death, a death to be wished for, the happiest of all possible deaths._

Yet Birgitte groaned, opening her eyes, looking up at me and then him, drunk from delight. "Come inside of me," she whispered, "I want to feel you come inside of me."

I'd told her about Torsten's sterility, and that had excited her; that, and the idea of his sadism had been powerful aphrodisiacs to her. And look at her now, squirming happily, lusty once more: she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him, pulling him towards herself with her legs again, crooning sweetly in his ear.

"Please, Master. Please fill my pussy with your come."

He keened, trembling on top of her, his hips snapping, all of him coiled so tight he must have been in pain. I helped him; I reached over him and dragged my nails up his back, again, again, clawed at him and pinched him until he was howling, jerking, gone. Sobbing, he thrust inside of Birgitte and stayed there, hugging her against himself, every muscle in his body twitching underneath my hands. Finally, he fell limp, crushing her underneath himself; faintly, I could hear Birgitte sighing happily. 

"Come here," he slurred, gesturing for me to join them, drawing me close so that he was lying half on top of Birgitte, half on top of me, stretching happily upon his bed of girl-flesh. He groaned and put his arms around both our necks, kissing our cheeks; with one last sigh, he lay still. 

I was still a little restless; after a while, he noticed this and told me to fetch the champagne and cigarettes. I didn't presume to drink or smoke without his permission, not in this mood we were still in. I just offered him his cigarette, lit it and poured him a glass. 

He leaned back against the cushions, Birgitte's head in his lap, I kneeling beside him. "Good girl," he purred and offered me a sip from his glass, then a drag from his cigarette. When Birgitte made a small noise, he offered these to her, too, little rewards for good behaviour. 

"Let Daddy catch his breath for a while," he murmured into my mouth with a kiss. "Play with each other in the meantime. I think Laura is feeling a little neglected."

Gladly, I sunk into Birgitte's arms and let her kiss me. I was heated, but it was a slow heat, now, not pierced by a desperate hurry to come. I was content to lie down and be explored by her, aroused by her curiosity and her innocence even more than by the caresses themselves. They were nowhere near as clumsy as Anita's, however. Birgitte had a natural gift for sensuality, for indulgence; her lovemaking was creative as much as it was passionate. She kissed me playfully all over, teased me, sought to bring out reactions from me with the strokes and pinches of her hands, and I loved it. Like a dirty old man herself, she attacked my breasts, squeezed them, sucked them, bit them until I was squirming, laughing, kicking underneath her. 

Torsten shook his head and lit another cigarette. "Such little devils, you two," he purred.

Encouraged by Torsten's praise, glowing with it, Birgitte lifted my legs and buried her face in my pussy. I yelped, unable to stop laughing, feeling light and utterly giddy at her playfulness. I'd never laughed during sex so much, I realised; it wasn't that Torsten was never playful, but our lovemaking was always of a much darker flavour. I felt strange, dizzy; I had told Torsten I didn't love Birgitte, but I found that the laughter that now made my breasts heave was opening something in me. And that Birgitte was a flood of lightness, sweetness entering into me, saturating me with colours, lights, flavours. What a strange thing to feel, strange; I suffocated on it, yet let myself give into it, to Birgitte's utter loveliness.

She stopped, then looked up at me. She made to ask me something, but turned to Torsten instead--I marvelled at how well she had taken to her subordinate role, realising even playfulness was no excuse to do something without her master's permission. She lifted two fingers to my pussy. "May I?" she asked him.

He stumped his cigarette and knelt beside us. "Go on. Let me see."

At first, her fingers felt uncomfortable, but Torsten guided her, showing her how to dip them inside of me, showing her how to relax them, soft and gentle at first. I shivered all over not from the penetration, but from the look in Torsten's eyes: he was using Birgitte as a toy on me, watching every sensation that flickered over my face. "Deeper," he would croon at her, "there, a little faster; now curl them a little," he would say, never taking his eyes off mine as he taught her. By now, I was so wet I trickled onto her fingers: he spread my pussy, dribbled spit over my clitoris and I moaned. "There, there," he just purred, then started to rub my clitoris with his thumb. "The left side is where she's more sensitive. Let's see if we can make her come. Give her three."

Birgitte did, and I choked, shook underneath their hands; the spot she had found inside of me was so sensitive each and every one of her caresses hurt, now. I couldn't breathe; my head thrashed upon the sheets, my hair glued to my face; yet I couldn't come. "Please," I begged. "Please, please--"

"Come for her," Torsten said, a teacher disciplining a child for poor performance. He tapped my cheek with his hand, still rubbing my clitoris with the other. "Come."

I breathed deep, the way I always did to push myself towards orgasm. The waves were there, but distant, mild, never reaching past that point where they would cascade into full release. "I can't, I can't--"

"Yes, you can," he said and slapped my cheek, _hard._ "Come." 

I reared back from the impact, jerking with Birgitte's fingers inside of me, but it was her expression at him hitting me that made those waves rise higher, higher. The shock on her face, the fear, the disgust and the arousal, the unmistakable arousal-- _oh, Birgitte, you are me_ \--a sob broke in the back of my throat. 

Yet again, he slapped me. "Do you hear me? _Come._ " And even as I started to come, he never stopped slapping me: with each one of my convulsions, he smacked me, sending half a dozen more shockwaves crashing through me. The pleasure-pain of it was exquisite, exquisite; he made Birgitte fuck me hard and fast until I was screaming, impaling myself on her hand. I was so wet I might have ejaculated, but I didn't care; he leaned down to swallow my screams in the way he so liked, his hand rubbing my clitoris so hard he was hurting me and he knew it.

"Thank you, Daddy; thank you, thank you," I whimpered into his mouth, still jerking as he kept on rubbing. 

"You should be thanking her," he said, pulling Birgitte up so that we could kiss. I shivered as I felt how wet her face was; I kissed and licked her clean, murmuring apologies.

"Don't apologise," she said, kissing me softly. "You taste delicious," she said, enamoured, shaking her head and smiling at me.

"Both of you do," he murmured, kissing each of us, more fierce, now. "Get up, both of you. I want to try something."

I laughed again as I realised what he was attempting: he moved us so that I was on all fours and Birgitte was positioned the same way, stacked on top of me. It was outrageous, outrageous of him, but once he started to fuck us both, plunging his cock from one pussy into another, my laughter died and turned into a moan instead. Even as he was fucking Birgitte, she whimpering on top of me, her pussy dripping over my ass--or perhaps exactly because of that--I was stirred into even greater arousal than before. As he pulled his cock out of Birgitte with a slurp and slid it inside of my pussy in turn, I wailed at the reflection I saw in the mirror. Two kneeling girls, two pussies, taken by a man furious, using both of us as nothing but flesh, nothing but holes to satisfy his cock. We existed only as toys, as pieces of meat for him to fuck as he roared and grunted and snorted on top of us, his balls shining as they slapped against our wet pussies. I loved it, drunk on the sounds of him, myself, Birgitte. I was swimming in the rut of it, at being reduced to but a red, hot, shining point of sex and _nothing more_. 

Torsten fucked us faster and faster, so erratic he must have been close to orgasm. He keened on top of us, wrapping his long arms around both of us, crushing us together. With a high-pitched noise, he pulled back and pushed inside of me again, then did something that had Birgitte stiffening in shock.

"Oh, you thought I wouldn't take this little hole, did you?" Torsten snarled at her. "Open up, open up, open up--"

Yet, as soon as he had said the words, he stopped thrusting and stilled completely. He let out a terrible noise of disgust, pulled out of me and shoved Birgitte down on the bed, snarling at her. "You little _bitch._ "

As I turned to look at him, he was furious, his hair fallen to his cheeks, his eyes frozen with anger. He was holding his hand out from his body, and two of its fingers were gleaming brown.

 _Oh, God._ Birgitte covered her face and burst into tears; I cowered. With his clean hand, Torsten grabbed Birgitte by the hair and shook her.

"Don't you ever _dare_ do this to me again. Ever, do you hear me?" He held his dirty fingers inches from her face, Birgitte wincing, trying to turn her face away in disgust. "I should make you lick these clean, to teach you a lesson. Or is that what you _wanted_ me to do, coming to me dirty like that? Hmm? Should I just push these into your mouth right now?"

Birgitte closed her eyes and sobbed, jerking back as far away from him as she could. "No, please; I'm so sorry, Master. I'm so sorry, so sorry, I--"

"You little _pig._ " He stared at her for a while, and I wondered whether he would really do it. I already saw it, saw the shit-covered fingers sinking past Birgitte's lips, and to my horror, I no longer knew whether the shiver that went through me was that of disgust or lust. My pussy pulsed, my stomach reeled; he brought his fingers closer to her, closer, his own cock leaking out a drop of arousal. Birgitte made a retching noise, another, dangling off Torsten's fist. 

It was then that he relented and let her collapse onto the bed. "Laura, fetch the tissues. Then hold her still."

My hands shaking, I gave him the tissues and went to comfort Birgitte. I brushed her hair from her face and hushed her, but did not say a word. Torsten spent a long time spitting on his fingers, even poured the remains of the champagne on his hand and used up half a dozen tissues to clean himself up, to make sure he was spotless. Yet, his cock stayed hard throughout; he observed the transfer of the shit into the tissues with a perverse slowness, and I knew him well enough to see he was struggling with himself. If that shit had been mine, would he have tasted it? Made _me_ taste it? Was it only the presence of an outsider that prevented him from taking that last step into his ultimate fetish, the threat of which was his greatest aphrodisiac? I was sure that's what was going on in his mind even as he tossed the last of the tissues aside. 

"Now," he said to Birgitte, his eyes still furious, his voice low and menacing. "What am I going to do with you?" 

Birgitte twisted in my arms and kicked the sheets with her ankles as Torsten approached, leaning over her, full of coiled violence. She cowered, truly frightened out of her wits. "Please, Master. I'm sorry; I'm so sorry. I can go and wash, I--"

"No." He put his hands to her neck and caressed it, pressing his thumbs into the hollow of her throat. Birgitte went still and swallowed; Torsten tilted his head in a way that made him seem more lizard than human, too swift, his eyes unnaturally wide. "You'll take your punishment like a good slave should," he said, his voice soft, smooth, cold. He massaged her throat, suffocating her whimpers, his long fingers curling all the way around her neck easily; for a moment, I feared that he would snap it. 

But it was the ribbon around her neck that his fingers now strayed to. Carefully, he undid the bow at the back, then weighed the bauble in his hand, considering us both. 

"Laura. Turn her around, yes, face down on the bed, just like that." He untied the stocking from around her bauble and tossed the stocking to me. "Bind her wrists with this, then hold her down."

I bound her hands behind her back and lifted her face into my lap. I dared caress her hair, but didn't say a word, in case Torsten disapproved of my showing too much empathy. That, and because his cruelty, the firmness of his discipline aroused me; I was more jealous of Birgitte than anything else as he knelt down beside her. He dangled the bauble beside her ear and rang the bell inside it. "Guess where this is going, my dear?" he leered.

"No!" Birgitte screamed.

"Yes," Torsten purred and spat in her ear. "Laura, hold her still."

I grabbed her face and smiled at her coldly, at his spit trickling down her temple, my pussy tightening at the very idea of her punishment. "Oh, yes," I said, nodding at her. "You can take it, can't you? It's the least you could do."

"Please--" she kicked again, squirmed.

I grabbed her hair and yanked her head up by it. "Didn't you hear what he said? He needs you to stay still."

She screamed even as Torsten spat on her ass, screamed as he started to ease the bauble inside. He just laughed, cooing at her, mocking her. "Oh, it _hurts,_ does it?"

"Please, stop, please--"

"Oh, no, no, no; this is what you get for teasing me with a hole like this. It's so pretty, too." He spread her buttocks and dipped the bauble in and out, in and out, stretching her asshole with it, and my pussy pulsed again as I imagined how painful the Rococo whorls must have felt against the tender surfaces of her sphincter. A virgin ass, and this was the first thing it would take inside of itself: Torsten chuckled as she screamed, as her ass swallowed the entire bauble. Only two pretty lengths of ribbon were peeking out of her ass, now. "There you are." He pushed on the muscles of her ass to make sure the sphere had slid inside completely. "Feels good, doesn't it?"

She was panting fast, now, hysterical from pain. "No," she whimpered. "It hurts. Please, take it out."

"Oh-ho-ho," he laughed. "Those are the words I want to hear when I take this little hole with my cock, my child. You don't even know what pain _means_ yet." And with that, he smacked her ass, smacked it until the bauble rang inside of her, until she was howling into my lap, sobbing uncontrollably.

"There, now; _that's_ closer to pain as I see it," he said sweetly. "But I think you need a little more. Help me, Laura."

I was glad to do so. Together, we smacked her ass, making her twist and turn so that the bauble rang again, all of her tinkling. We laughed as we made music with her this way, with her yelps, screams, the little bell making the sweetest of sounds with each and every one of our strokes. After a while, her screams died down and she merely lay there, panting, staring at me with empty eyes.

"Have you had enough?" Torsten said, smacking her again. Her ass jiggled, but she didn't move, just kept staring.

"I think she has," I said gently, stroking her cheek. "You have learned your lesson now, haven't you, princess?"

"Yes," she whispered, quiet, entranced. 

I couldn't not kiss her. She was exactly as I had been whenever Torsten had tortured me. She'd gone past her horror into a state that was beyond it; into the quiet realm where pain and pleasure commingled, where the physical and mental shock of what he had given her had stunned her into ecstatic silence. "Good girl," I whispered upon her lips; "Good girl," Torsten murmured as he kissed her as well.

Presently, he brought one of his hands between her buttocks and slipped the other one to her pussy. He pushed at her anus, massaging the bauble through it until Birgitte let out a soft whimper.

"But, my dear Birgitte!" he exclaimed, then leaned over her, his mouth glistening against her ear. "Why is your pussy so wet? Hmm? This was supposed to be a _punishment._ " He lifted his hand out to show me. "Look at that. All dripping wet. Is it because you like me hurting your ass? Is that it?"

"No!"

He smacked her ass with his wet hand and laughed. "Liar. I think you are just like my Laura and love nothing more than having things put inside your ass. In fact, I think we should show you what it's like. What you're missing out on." He sucked his fingers clean and turned to me. "Shall we?"

I kissed him. "I'd love to, Daddy."

He took the bottle of glycerine from the bedside table and handed it to me. "You'll have to show her."

Purring underneath his gaze, I took the glycerine and moved so that I was lying down on my side, just like Birgitte was now, so that my ass was inches from her face. My pussy was now so hot and wet it hurt for me not to touch it, so I rubbed it a little as I slowly eased two slicked fingers inside my ass. I moaned as they slid inside of me, so easily; Torsten spread my buttocks to get a good look himself. 

"That's how my little daughter keeps her ass ready for her Daddy," he murmured at both of us, kissing my knuckles. "All nice and clean and wet," he said, leaning in to lap at my pussy. 

I whimpered as he did so, my thighs shaking around his head. "I'm ready," I said, not caring if I sounded impatient. I'd wanted him to fuck my ass all night; even as I now slid three fingers inside of myself and tugged, they didn't feel big enough. "Please, Daddy," I said, lowering my voice to a little girl's pitch once more. "Please fuck me in the ass. Please."

"Mm-hmm?" he murmured as he kissed my shoulder, moving into a spooning position behind me, resting Birgitte's head on my thigh so that she could see everything, everything. "Daddy's little girl wants a big dick in her ass?"

"Yes," I breathed, taking my hand out, using it to spread my buttocks instead. "Please, Daddy," I whimpered, pushing my hole against the head of his cock, kissing it with my ass over and over. "Please fuck me in the ass."

"Doesn't she ask nicely?" Torsten said to Birgitte and kissed my neck. "Good little Laura," he murmured as he started to push inside. "Good little girl. That's it, that's it," he cried into my hair as I pushed back onto him, swallowing him with my ass. "That's how a good little girl takes her Daddy's cock inside her ass, oh, oh, _that's it_ \--"

Finally, finally he was inside of me. It'd only been two days, yet I'd missed his cock so much: the wonderful stretch of it, the length of it, the heat of it. No matter how many times I'd taken it, it always felt enormous, like it could split me in half. The push of it felt like it would never end, each of his thrusts such a violent blow on my internal organs so that sometimes I feared I would throw up, that there simply wasn't enough room inside my body for a cock like his. Its width and the heat of the glycerine hurt the muscles of my anus with every stroke but I loved that heat, loved that burn: every single time he sodomised me it felt like losing my virginity all over again. 

I tried to clasp him, but he started thrusting faster, making my wet hands slide off his skin; I buried my face into the sheets and couldn't do anything except lie there, ululating, pushed back and forth with his thrusts. He truly wanted to give Birgitte a show, fucking me hard and fast, showing the innocent how a father fucked his daughter, drowning her in the experience of true incest. No Electra complex, this; simply the reality of my father's fat cock churning in my guts, making my pussy wet his balls, each blow sending white pulses of ecstasy up my spine. 

"Daddy, Daddy, Daddy," I cried, delirious, panting, so close to coming, so soon.

"Do you like that?" he purred, sliding his hand to my pussy. "Is Daddy giving your ass a good fuck? Hmm?"

"It's perfect, oh, it's beautiful, oh, fuck, don't stop--"

"See how much she loves it?" he said to Birgitte and slid out nearly completely, displaying her his cock. "Look how clean it is, look. No shit like in your dirty little hole, just glycerine and anal juice; sweet and delicious. And do you know what she likes to do with Daddy's cock when it's been in her ass?" 

I screamed, but he clamped his hand over my mouth. I'd told Birgitte so much, had told her nearly everything, everything except the ass-tasting and the piss, for fear of her running away. If she'd known about those things, would she have followed us home tonight? Yet the very fear of it, the horror of it made my pussy pulse underneath his hand over and over, orgasmic tremors rippling through me as I thought of performing our rites in front of her.

"What is it?" Birgitte asked, having no choice.

He took his other hand off my mouth and crooned in my ear. "She loves to watch as I take my cock out of her ass," he said, turning his strokes long, rolling his hips until I moaned underneath him, so coiled and tense now that any stroke could plunge me into full orgasm. "And she opens her little mouth--open it, Laura, that's it, hold it open for me--" he said and climbed to kneel beside my head, presenting his glistening wet cock to my mouth. "And then she sucks it _all clean._ "

I lifted up to my elbows, not even looking at Birgitte: all I could see was the blue of his eyes, the light shining off his cock, its wetness. He stroked my temple, brushing my hair aside. "Don't you, my child?"

I slid my hands to my pussy and rubbed, rubbed, taking a deep breath, deliberately pushing myself to the edge. "Yes, Daddy." 

He nodded, his smile sharp and bright. "You have my permission."

I crashed into orgasm as I swallowed him, the twin sweetnesses of glycerine and saccharine dissolving upon my tongue. I thrust my fingers inside of myself and choked my scream on his cock, another scream, third as I came and came, riding my hands, sucking my taste off him as if it was the sole thing my life depended upon. And it was, it was; I was sure I would die without this intimacy, die without this perversion, a pleasure greater than any drug ever invented. And now he was presenting it, proudly, to an audience: I could hear Birgitte gasp as she watched me; from the corner of my eye I could see her stare at us in disbelief. And that look was what plunged me into another series of waves, cascades, sparkles of ecstasy, all slick and wet and saccharine-sweet. 

I had not even finished coming before he turned me around, so that I was on all fours again, so that he was straddling my hips in that position both of us so loved. My pussy made a farting noise as he entered my ass again, pushing air out of me; I buried my face in my hands in shame and moaned, screamed as he started pounding into me, eager for orgasm himself. 

"Come here," he grunted to Birgitte, "beside the mirror. Look, both of you, look--"

I looked over my shoulder as he took his cock out of me with a wet slurp, presenting my gaping ass in the mirror for Birgitte to see. "That's what your ass will look like, too, when I fuck you like this," he snarled and shook her by the hair. "You want it, don't you? Want it gaping wide, open like this?"

"Yes," Birgitte gasped in shame, "yes," as Torsten pressed her face against my hip and made her watch as he sunk his cock back inside of me, fucked me.

"And you want to taste it, too, don't you? Want to taste your shitty little hole?"

At that, she mewled pitifully and closed her eyes from shame. She sobbed in horror, in helpless arousal against my buttock as he kept on fucking me, fucking me, fucking me so hard my vision blurred. 

"Answer me!" Torsten barked. 

"Yes," Birgitte sobbed, her tears running down my ass, now. "Anything. Everything," she babbled. "Anything you want to give me, Master, anything, I want it, oh, God, I want it so much, I want it--"

"Then taste my daughter," he growled and took his cock out, holding it out to her, gleaming, clear, thick with the gloss of glycerine and mucus. _"Taste her ass."_

Wailing, Birgitte closed her eyes as Torsten plunged his cock inside of her mouth. "Taste it, taste it, taste it," Torsten stuttered, his voice high-pitched, sharp. "Open your eyes, open your eyes, see what you're tasting, see where it's come from--"

And her eyes as she opened them, oh, oh--her makeup completely smeared now, her giant blue eyes red and wet from tears, staring in horror as she swallowed his cock, swallowed me, swallowed the last of her own innocence. Torsten's moans turned into screams, wails as he let go and shot his come into her mouth, making Birgitte jerk back and gag, sperm bursting past her lips. Even while he was still coming, he pulled his cock out and dipped it inside of my ass again, then plunged it back into Birgitte's mouth, sharing his sperm between the two of us, torturing her mouth with our tastes until he was sated. 

Then, he finally let go of us, pushing us down onto the bed, gathering us against himself in an act that would have been tender if it hadn't been so controlling, so possessive: carefully, he kissed the breath out of both our mouths, squeezed us against his chest. For a long while, the only noise in the room was the soft tinkling of Birgitte's bell as she shivered; Torsten untied her wrists, lay on top of her and kissed her until that sound, too, stopped. He turned off the light and took the quilt, covered us all with it and again, lay on top of us both, deliberately suffocating us a little until we had all calmed down. 

"Now, girls," he murmured, kissing our foreheads. "What do we say?"

I laced my fingers with his, utterly exhausted, utterly blissful. "Thank you, Daddy." 

Birgitte looked at him for a long while, smiling, an entirely new expression in her eyes--I would have gone so far as to say it looked _enlightened,_ in the spiritual sense of the word. There really was no other term for that look because of the joy, the knowledge, the realisation, the love in it. She took his hand in hers and kissed it softly, then pressed it against her cheek. 

"Thank you, Master," she murmured.

"That's all I wanted to hear," he sighed contentedly and kissed both our heads, holding us close until we fell asleep in his arms.


	5. Chapter 5

We spent the next few weeks in an erotic dream, in a world of colours, sensations, mental and physical states so intense that whenever we emerged into the outside world, it seemed bleak, cold and unreal in comparison. Indoors, we plunged into all kinds of sins imaginable, Torsten's hands, his tongue, his cock, his whips making our flesh sing for him. I walked through the days in a red, warm haze, my skin tingling with warmth from his blows, my mouth swollen and sweet from Birgitte's kisses. I could feel where they'd been with each step I took, and saw people staring at me even more than they had done before: even if I wore sombre clothes and pinned my hair up, I was still glowing with voluptuousness, and despite my careful toilette, I was sure people could still smell the scents of sperm, pussy and glycerine upon me. 

Torsten told me of an Arab love manual he'd read, one that stated that a man in possession of several wives should always love each woman in a different way. That it would be wise of him to perform different acts and positions with each woman--not only to make each woman feel unique, but also to keep his erotic life rich with variety. Yet Birgitte and I were so similar, he said, that it was like having sex with twins, and this pleased him greatly. 

However, he insisted that there should be one thing I never told Birgitte about, and that was his homosexual side. Neither of us trusted her completely, yet, and while affection between women was more easily brushed under the carpet, the consequences he faced for his leanings were far more severe. This made perfect sense, and while I missed that part of him--Birgitte didn't leave us much time to have sex with others, let alone each other--I consented. In turn, I begged him not to share our fetish for piss with her or anyone else, just as before. That was something I felt vulnerable about, not because of the dirtiness of the act, but because of what it meant to us. He agreed, and oh, how we sealed this pact one night when Birgitte was away: I taking him slowly with a dildo while he filled my mouth with sperm, with piss, continuing thus for hours until we were both sated. 

What I loved most about our encounters with Birgitte was the way she inspired Torsten sexually, awakening a newfound vigour, virility in him. Taking her ass for the first time was a feast for both of us; I'd shown her how to rinse herself thoroughly so that we could work on her all night. Oh, the look on her face when we gave her her first anal orgasm, two fingers from both Torsten and I working slowly into her ass, her pussy quivering against my mouth! By the time Torsten had inserted his cock fully into her ass, I was holding her in my arms, and the shock in her eyes was incredible. She was shivering all over, slick from cold sweat, her teeth chattering, yet her pussy kept pulsing and dripping beneath my fingers, hotter and fuller than I'd ever felt it before. 

"A little cock you've got right there," I'd whispered into her mouth, stroking her gloriously swollen clitoris between my fingers. "No wonder you like being fucked like a boy." But by then, she was so far gone she barely heard me: she shouted louder than ever, an unnatural cry, that of a madwoman, orgasming so violently it frightened me. She convulsed between us so that Torsten later told me he'd feared she was going to snap his cock off, her pussy gushing into my palm; oh, it was beautiful.

Yet my favourite, and that of Torsten's, was when he turned the sharpest point of his cruelty upon us. It was an elaborate game, one he loved to start from a stage where both Birgitte and I played innocent. He would spend long moments hypnotising us, regressing us until we felt, acted and _became_ little girls. He loved nothing more than to sit and smoke on the scarlet room's sofa, the very image of the dignified father in his pinstriped suit and polished shoes, adoring his two little girls: his daughter and her best friend. We would kneel at his feet in short, frilled dresses and white knee socks, with ribbons in our hair, glowing with happiness, our cheeks flushed from the fire. He would give us priceless, exquisitely sculpted dolls to play with--even if they were nowhere near as pretty as we were, he told us--and we spent long evenings playing with them, crafting stories for them while he sat and watched. 

From those evenings, those trances I would always remember the scents and the textures best: his brandy, his cigarettes, cigars; the scratch of his moustache on my cheek as he hugged us and kissed us. The scraping sound porcelain limbs made on porcelain limbs as we tied the dolls together when they were captured by Indians, wizards, medieval tyrants. That's how the play always ended, somehow, the dolls being tied up, whipped, spanked. Torsten, however, never guided us to do so--that was the way Birgitte had always played with her dolls, she told me, and I was astonished to find out that I had not been the only one. In the waking world, we talked about this, sometimes--how strange was it that we had both had these needs and desires from childhood, and how lucky were we to have found him to fulfill them?

We were lucky, very lucky indeed as he knelt between us to play with us, feeding us drugged candy, his hands lingering upon our soft little arms and knees. In turn, we would coo at him, invite him to join our games. We'd tie him into a chair and blindfold him--we'd captured the tyrant and danced a victory dance around him, ululating, screaming, giggling madly in delight. We'd slap him, tickle him, taunt him with kisses and bites; and oh, the way he panted as he struggled, the way his erection rose in his trousers! We'd leave him loosely tied so that he could lean forwards and snap his teeth at us, trying to catch us: we made piercing shrieks of delight when his teeth caught our skirts, or better yet, our skin.

Often, when we had tied him up this way, I would invent new games and whisper the details loudly in Birgitte's ear. "Sometimes, Daddy likes to play doggies. He lifts my skirt and sniffs me between the legs, saying it's how dogs recognise each other. Shall we make him guess which one of us he's sniffing this time?"

"Oh, yes!" Birgitte exclaimed, clapping her hands. 

I could distinctly hear Torsten muffling a whimper; I saw him biting his lip, sweat beading underneath his blindfold. His erection was now tenting his trousers, and I fancied he must have been so hard it _hurt._ Good. That served him right; he deserved a little teasing. So I dragged the coffee table over to his chair and put my finger to Birgitte's lips.

"Now, we'll begin. But you must stay quiet, completely quiet, as quiet as a dormouse."

And there, we took turns climbing onto the table, brushing our skirts, knees, thighs against his nose, his cheeks, his hair; when I turned around and let my panties brush against his nose, he _moaned._ He made to bite me, but I hopped off and Birgitte took my place. She was bolder, pressing her buttocks, her pussy to his face, rubbing her scent all over him. Torsten panted, choked and for a moment, I feared he might have a heart attack. His face was red as Birgitte got off the table, his chest heaving, and now there was a wet stain on his trousers. 

I waited for a while before I spoke. "Which one of us was which, Daddy?"

"I can't tell yet," he panted. "I think you need to try again; let me smell you for longer," he said, licking his lips. 

This time, both of us climbed onto the table and drowned him in frills, in soft skin, in the scent of powder, candy and the sweetness of our pussies. I hooked my leg around his shoulder, staining my thigh with his pomade as I held his face against my pussy; the noise he made into me was inhuman, my hips now so full of heat the vibrations of his moan hurt me. I could barely keep quiet as I let go and let Birgitte do the same: again, she bent over and rubbed herself over his face. But this time, Torsten pressed his tongue into her through her panties, making her scream and lose her balance so that she toppled onto the floor.

"Birgitte," he said, licking his lips triumphantly.

She had not hurt herself, but she slapped him nevertheless. "You cheated!"

I pulled off his blindfold and his pupils were wide from lust; he was hissing from delight. "Yes, I suppose I did. But that's what you get for being so naughty."

I slapped him, too. "Who are you calling naughty?"

He reeled back and groaned, his erection shifting in his trousers--oh, he was drunk on this, drunk. "You two. But I promise to give you more candy if you let me go."

We pretended to think about it for a while, then untied him, with kisses and croons. 

"Where's the candy, then?"

"Yes, where is it?"

"I've got it in a box underneath the sofa." He slid his jacket off and rubbed circulation back into his wrists. "Go on, have a look."

The box was long, wrapped in glittering paper; greedily, we ripped the wrapper to shreds and peeked inside. Inside the box, cushioned on a bed of satin as if it were a piece of jewelry, gleamed a long, candy-pink rubber cock. Yet this was no ordinary dildo: it was double-ended. I had never seen the like and even in my wildest imaginations, I could not have come up with something like it myself. It must have been about twenty inches long, beautifully sculpted with raised veins and ridges running all over its length, each end culminating in a wide, delicious glans.

Birgitte lifted it out of the box with two hands, raising it up to the light, her eyes wide from astonishment. "Oh my God."

Torsten knelt between us and stroked our shoulders. "Do you like it? I had it made especially, just so you two could play with it together."

We fell to hugging him and kissing him, climbing over him, drowning him in delighted noises. "But how do we use it?" I asked, even if I had some ideas; I knew he had bought the toy exactly so that he could show us.

"Well, now," he purred onto my lips, "I'm glad you asked."

Both Birgitte and I were so aroused from our games that we didn't need any more warming up; we were so eager to get our hands on the toy that we whimpered in frustration as Torsten laid us on the floor and insisted on licking both of us first. Again, he stacked us like dolls, this time so that we were lying on our backs on top of each other, so that he could cover two pussies in one lick, as he put it. He'd only removed our panties so that when his licks got more furious, we got to wrap our socks and frills around his face and shoulders again, drowning him in sweetness. 

"Please, Daddy!" I squealed and squirmed. Birgitte made noises underneath me and I feared I would suffocate her if we had to stay like this for much longer.

He laughed and lifted his face; it was shining from us. "All right. Get on your hands and knees, both of you. Face away from each other, that's it."

It took a while for him to ease the dildo inside both of our pussies, but when we finally succeeded in taking it, we were both groaning from pleasure. Torsten hadn't shown Birgitte any of our toys, and this was the first time she'd taken an artificial cock inside of herself. Unlike so many of Torsten's toys, this one wasn't oversized; in fact, it was a little thinner than his own cock, so it didn't feel too painful either. I loved the way the glans felt as it slid deep inside of me when I arched my back; the ridges of it massaging me on the inside the way a real cock never could. I could only imagine what Birgitte must have felt when that same shape moved inside of her in turn: I peeked from between my legs and saw that her elbows were shaking a little. 

"How does that feel?" Torsten asked as he knelt in front of her, giving her a little kiss. 

"It's so--so hard," she said, squirming a little.

"And it feels good, doesn't it?"

"I'm not sure."

"Then let Laura help you. Laura, would you move a little?" 

"With pleasure." This was the true purpose of the toy, after all: made so that two people could fuck each other while pleasuring themselves. And I, the fool had thought that this was impossible for a woman, to get pleasure from fucking another because she didn't own a cock! But here I was, giddy as I fucked Birgitte with the dildo, fucked her with my pussy. She was still a little stiff, but I could see I was dripping down onto the carpet in strings, ecstatic from my realisation, ecstatic from the gift. "Thank you, Daddy," I murmured, close to tears. "Thank you, thank you."

He chuckled and came over to kiss me in turn. "I knew you would love it," he purred, kissing me over and over, watching my face with slitted eyes as I fucked Birgitte, fucked myself. "Give her a little more."

I moaned into his mouth as I slid my hand to my pussy, stroking it, grinding my hips down on the toy until with a wail, Birgitte's face and arms hit the floor. Groaning deep in her chest, she took to stroking her pussy herself, moving back on the dildo whenever I withdrew. "Don't stop, oh, Laura, please don't stop, please don't stop--"

"I won't," I panted, now so wet my hand and the toy were making fast, slick noises; and above it all, I could hear Torsten's low, low croon of adoration as he knelt beside us and stroked our buttocks, urging us to move faster, faster. 

"That's so beautiful, so beautiful," he said, grinning wickedly. "The first one to come gets to put it in her ass first," he said, lightly.

That did it. Both of us burst out into spontaneous moans, fucking ourselves and each other so furiously that now the toy started to chafe inside of me, hurt a little as it hit my womb, but I didn't care. I would be faster than her, and I would prove it to them both, prove it--

But it was then that he pushed a thumb inside each of our asses, sending us screaming, and I couldn't believe it: Birgitte and I were plunged into simultaneous orgasm, both of us gasping and grinding and spasming upon the toy as he laughed above us. 

Groaning pitifully, we both fell onto the ground, shaking; Torsten clasped the middle of the toy in his hand as we both slid off it. Purring in delight, he held its glistening length up to the firelight and sucked both of its ends, savouring our tastes like fine wine. "Quite similar, quite similar indeed," he murmured. "You know, I can't tell the difference any longer; it's like comparing two fruits of the same tree."

"And our asses?" I ventured, pulling him into a kiss.

"Oh, we should definitely find out," he said.

"Me first!" Birgitte yelped, still in the mood of the greedy child. She sat on the sofa and lifted her legs so that her hips were pushed off the seat, her pussy and ass presented in offering. 

Torsten just raised an eyebrow. "Well, I suppose you did come a split second earlier..."

"She's a filthy liar," I laughed, "but let her have it."

"Mm." He kissed me, long, sweet, so passionate it made me moan, deliberately letting Birgitte wait a while.

When we finally descended upon her, it was with kisses, soft caresses: for a long while, Torsten just wanted to watch me kneel and lick Birgitte's pussy, lick her ass, make them shine in the firelight. She couldn't move much, bent double as she was, and this made torturing her all the sweeter; I had learned to love the way her pussy clenched against my mouth. Torsten, in the meantime, swallowed her noises of complaint with his own lips, squeezing and pinching her breasts through her dress. 

"Please," she murmured against his lips, her voice sugary, sweet. "Please."

"Please, what?" Torsten said, pausing to loosen up his tie, to roll up his sleeves. "I thought you liked my daughter licking your little pussy," he purred with a kiss, loving the way Birgitte had learned to tease him by now.

Birgitte bit her lip. "But I want to have it in my ass, Master."

"I'm sure you do," he murmured. He kissed me briefly and gestured for me to move aside, then pushed two fingers inside of Birgitte's pussy, playing with it. "You're so wet here, so wet," he said as he brought his slick fingers to her ass. "Do you think you could take the toy with just this?"

Her eyes went wide, but I saw her hips twitching; as Torsten slid both fingers inside of her ass, she threw her head back and gasped. "Oh, please--" the little tart moaned as he began to move his fingers.

"It's going to hurt," he sing-songed. 

"I want it to," she said as she spread her legs wider, still biting her lip. "Please."

Torsten turned to me and laughed, shaking his head. "Did you hear that?"

"I think she is a _terrible_ little slut," I grinned and gave her pussy a lick, another, both of us pleasuring her until she moaned so loudly she shook. Both Torsten and I sensed that she was on the brink of orgasm; we couldn't have that. I stopped sucking her clitoris and touched his wrist, signalling for him to stop. He stayed still for a while, watching Birgitte tremble, glare at him hopelessly. 

"Please! You're so mean."

"Yes, aren't I?" Torsten said, then lifted his fingers out, twirling them, admiring the way her fluids glittered upon them. "But look at what a mess you've made," he tutted. "Laura, have you got anything I could use?"

I smiled and opened my mouth, sticking out my tongue. 

He hissed as he wiped his fingers on my tongue, my own pussy pulsing as I tasted Birgitte's pussy, ass. The sweetness of it melted upon my tongue--she was not as sweet as we were, yet, the saccharine being another secret we had not shared with her--but her pussy was sweet enough, mingling wonderfully with the taste of an ass that was now well-cleaned. I could only taste the mustiness of sweat, of anal mucus, of flesh; we had taught her well. 

She was now whimpering in jealousy, squirming, her pussy and her ass gleaming, flushed. "Please."

"You do the honours," Torsten said, handing me the dildo. He himself sat on the sofa beside Birgitte, watching over her shoulder, playing softly with her pussy as I pressed the tip of the dildo to her ass. Immediately, she winced and jerked in Torsten's arms.

"Are you scared?" he asked her, laughing.

"A little," she whispered, biting her lip.

"Good," he murmured, and she jerked again; I shivered all over in delight at his sadism. Deliberately, I pushed the toy in a little faster than I should have, so that Birgitte stiffened, so that another noise of pain burst out of her mouth. 

"Look at me," he said, his arm around her, turning her to face him. "Look into my eyes as my daughter fucks you in the ass." 

_Oh, God._ It was my pussy that clenched as he said the words, as he held her gaze. I spat on the dildo and twisted it, twisted it to ease it in further, and as the head slipped past the muscles of her sphincter, she _wailed._ She was now shuddering uncontrollably, her knees quaking; yet her pussy was dripping onto the dildo, slickening it up further. And all the while, she stared up at Tosten, helpless, wounded, truly a lost child in the hands of a tyrant: she never even blinked, so that tears soon streamed down her face, juddering down them as I began to thrust. She was beautiful, absolutely beautiful, a little doll for us to play with and take apart as we pleased.

As I continued to fuck her, she fell quiet from the pain and her breathing became laboured, yet her pussy kept swelling and wetting even further. As she jerked again, Torsten but laughed and slapped her pussy, slapped it so hard drops of her sweetness sprayed on my face; I could not hold back a whimper, shivering at the filthiness of it all. But the noise she was now making was low, unlike that of a human, some deep, haunted cooing sound that frightened me, disturbed me to my core. But I couldn't stop. Torsten's spirit possessed me, commanded the actions of my hands: the woman in me might have stopped at this point, feeling pity for her sister, but the Devil wished otherwise. Thus, I kept fucking her, violating her, smearing the dildo with her juices and my spit until it was halfway inside of her, all of ten inches inside of her, her hole distended grotesquely around it. 

I left it there and waited for further orders from Torsten. He looked from Birgitte to me, still stroking her pussy, kissing her mouth, then kissing her eyelids, hushing her. "Shh. Shh. The worst is over; I promise. You've been such a good girl." The look on his face frightened me: it was so cheerful, so happy, so excited, the very picture of the proud father. He looked twenty years younger, his eyes wide, his smile splitting his face, his eyes clear as glass--sometimes, I wondered if at moments like these, he was on the cusp of psychosis. And yet, I shuddered as I recognised in him my own madness, the sickening thrill of hurting Birgitte like this, most of this game of my own making. I would follow him, follow him anywhere, even if that anywhere was to be complete madness.

"Would you like to share the toy with my daughter, now?" he asked her.

"Yes," Birgitte murmured against his shoulder, but it's not as if she had a choice; that's why she loved it so. 

"Come on, then," he said and laid her down on the sofa so that she was lying on her left side, the dildo hanging out of her ass like some bizarre tail. He beckoned for me to lie down on my right, so that he sat in the middle between us, both of our asses in his lap. "There. Are you comfortable?"

I certainly wasn't, but I wasn't going to protest. From the glass covering the painting on top of the mantelpiece, I could dimly see our reflection, the new work of art he had created from our bodies. The black stripe of his trousers, the white patch of his shirt, the rest but a pink and white blur of frills and flesh on either side of him, symmetrical, perfect. 

He started to work wetness from my pussy into my ass, pushing his fingers inside of me so easily, so fast I had to bite down on a whimper. He didn't even ask if I wanted glycerine, and would not have given it even if I had requested it, I knew this. And as he spat on my ass and started to ease the other end of the dildo inside, it hurt, it hurt, but the pain brought with itself a great relief. Now, I was only a recipient of his punishment, no longer a tool for him to torture Birgitte with. I could lie here and be taken, toyed with, _fucked,_ to receive him instead of channeling him. 

And gladly, I received him, held myself open: the ridges of the toy, so much crueller than his cock could ever be felt so awful, so wonderful I trickled through his fingers upon my pussy. I buried my face in the sofa, my tongue dry against the green velvet as I panted into it, moaned into it, yet he kept on rubbing, kept on thrusting into me. The pleasure-pain was so overwhelming, so intense it threatened to force me into complete silence but I fought it, fought it with a cry of "Daddy," sobbing it at him again and again, wanting to show him just how much I loved this, loved him.

"Shh, my little child," he murmured with such perverse kindness, sweetness, stroking my hair, kissing my hand. "Shh. Just an inch or two, now. Breathe for me a little."

I didn't breathe so much as I groaned, forcing myself to relax, forcing my body to yield to the toy. It was horrifying and fascinating at the same time; I was not sure if I had ever taken anything this deep inside my body before. Yet I had taken his hand, and Birgitte had taken the other half of the toy, so I should be able to take it, shouldn't I? So I breathed again, focused on his fingers on either side of my clitoris, focused on the soft murmurs and croons that softened me, opened me up for his pleasure. 

"There. There," he whispered, letting go of the dildo and stroking my hair again. "Good girl. Good girl. Such a good girl." 

But I barely heard him, that's how lost I was in the sensations, my vision dark. Birgitte was quiet, too; in my haze, I fancied that if I looked around in my trance realm, I would find her sitting there, too, in that same half-light world I was now enspelled in. But I couldn't move; I was trapped in place, suspended, weightless in the silence of the mystic, the pressure on my spinal nerves having plunged me into a state beyond words, beyond ordinary consciousness. 

He let us lay there for a while, his hands on our buttocks, thighs; for long moments, he kept caressing us, inspecting us, feeling for our pussies, tracing his fingers around our stretched assholes. I felt precious, cherished; I hoped Birgitte felt the same way, too. He might have paid hundreds of dollars for those dolls, but I knew they were nothing compared to us, his living ones, ones he had crafted with his own hands. I would have cried if I hadn't been beyond tears; instead, I just swam in the sensations of the dildo inside of me, of his lips upon my hip, of Birgitte's legs entwined with mine. 

He woke us up by sliding both his hands to our pussies and stroking us softly, then with more vigour, raising his voice deliberately to bring us out of our trance. "Laura," he said, a little sternly, "Birgitte," like a teacher wanting to make sure his pupils hadn't fallen asleep in class. 

Thankfully, he was satisfied with mumbles, because that's all I was capable of; the noise Birgitte made was even quieter. He smacked both our buttocks and purred, that purr making my pussy clench, stir again as I wondered what he had planned for us. He smacked us again and there, that got a yelp out of Birgitte, too. He laughed and slapped us once more for good measure.

"You've been such good little girls, both of you. Now, I'm going to reward you," he chuckled and slid his hands to our pussies once more. "I'm going to let both of you come, but on one condition: you must do it simultaneously, just like you did before. Shall we try that?"

I whimpered my agreement. It sounded nearly impossible, but it wasn't like that was going to stop Torsten. He started to stroke us, softly, and now both of us definitely woke up. I wondered if his arms were getting tired, but at the same time, I relished the work he put into this, the pleasure he derived from pleasuring us, from watching us squirm. It made him feel powerful, proving to himself that he could take two girls at once, that he could drive both of us mad with arousal simultaneously. And oh, how he laughed, oh, the look on his face as we started to move more, rocking ourselves on the dildo, exchanging wicked grins over our shoulders. 

Birgitte looked drunk, tousled, her hair a messy halo around her head as she lifted herself a little and pushed her hips down, with the deliberate intent of making me moan. And I did, as much at the sight of her as at the pleasure. I pushed right back, challenging her, fucking her in turn, both of us now moving so fast Torsten had trouble holding onto us. He burst into laughter himself, kissing our legs, our thighs. With a lecherous groan, he bent down between us and kissed our pussies as much as he could between our thrusts, kissing and rubbing them as we fucked each other faster, faster. 

"That's it, that's it," he drawled, slapping both our pussies until we were howling. "Get that cock all juicy, get it all _tasty,_ come on." 

That's what did it; I slipped my hand to my clitoris and rubbed, rubbed. "Please, Daddy, I'm going to come--"

"Hmm? And you, Birgitte?"

"I'm not sure, I--" 

He slapped her pussy, sending her screaming. "I'm going to count to ten. One. Two. Three. Four."

I could barely hold back, taking my fingers from my pussy for the next counts; my hand was shaking. At "seven," I finally slipped my hand back to my clitoris and looked at Birgitte. She was staring into the distance, spasming, and with each of Torsten's counts, I slammed my hips into her, forcing her towards release. "Eight, nine, ten," each of these a blow, and at the last one, I ground down on her one last time and let go. I screamed as I came, no longer caring whether Birgitte had followed me into orgasm or not. Our limbs became a tangle, kicking, both of us wailing: Torsten had to clasp us tight against himself to keep us from falling off the sofa. Anal orgasm always did this to me, always, so much stronger than anything my pussy could ever bring me, and I sobbed dry tears into the sofa, ruining the velvet with my nails and I didn't care.

When I returned to normal consciousness, he had lowered our legs so that we were both curled up in a fetal position against him, the dildo still inside of us. He held us there for a long time, clutching us against himself, captive. Finally, he laughed and smacked both our asses. "Well," he said. "That was quite something."

"Thank you, Daddy," I mumbled.

He kissed my hand. "Don't thank me just yet." He clasped the dildo in the middle and addressed both of us. "Now, I want you to slide off this thing, slowly, carefully. Don't hurt yourselves. That's it. Oh--" and the way he laughed as he looked at our asses, at what he had done to them! I could only see Birgitte's; a delicious wet black hole, spit and pussy juice smeared around its rim, and my mouth watered. 

"Turn around, girls," he said, softly, then turned the dildo around, too. "Taste each other," he said with a wicked tenderness, "Go on." He held the dildo out, pink, gleaming, sparkling with our fluids, foam.

I leaned down and sucked the dildo reverently: it was warm, delicious, almost like a real cock now, and I stifled the sudden urge to cry from sheer fulfillment. But it was Torsten who cried out, now, such a vulnerable little noise, something between a sob and a whimper: as if this truly was _his_ cock both of us were sucking, having taken both of us, his ultimate fetish now doubled. I opened my eyes and it was at that moment that he leaned down between us, lapping our tastes off the dildo, kissing us both, kissing and kissing, as if he could never get enough. He groaned and forced our heads down on it, forced us to fellate it for long moments, then sucked our spit off it in turn, keening, drunk from our combined tastes.

As we all lay down on the sofa, panting, I realised he hadn't even taken his cock out yet. I had never seen him like this with us; the only time he'd ever denied himself for this long had been at the orgy in the brothel. But I didn't press him, didn't want to ruin the beauty of this moment, us sprawled in a heap of limbs upon the sofa, warm from fire and debauchery. 

When he returned to the sofa, I realised I had fallen asleep--I hadn't even noticed he'd been away. "Let's go," he said, helping both of us off the sofa, ushering us into the bathroom. For some reason, he was carrying a thermos and I thought to ask him about it, but was still too sleepy to do so. Once we'd reached the bathroom, I made to take off my dress; I was definitely in need of a shower.

"Not just yet, my child," he said, setting the thermos on the toilet seat. "I want both of you in the bath, just like you were on the floor, ass against ass."

As we did so, he opened the thermos and picked up the enema syringe. Birgitte's eyes widened in shock as he filled the syringe with white fluid, drawing the plunger all the way back. "Oh, yes," he said, conversationally. "I'm told warm milk is very good for getting children to sleep," he said, the very outrageousness of his words stunning me into silence. He couldn't possibly--

But he did; there was plenty enough milk in the thermos for him to fill both of us up with it, one syringeful each. "Now, hold it in; only release it once I tell you to. Do you understand?"

I nodded my agreement, even if I could hardly believe it. Despite seeing it with my own eyes in the mirror, I felt as if this was some dream; the sight of it was so absurd. Two girls dressed as dolls bent over in the bathtub, cramped, holding our hands over our asses so as not to let the milk spill, and a refined gentleman climbing into the bathtub with us, seating himself between us, taking out his cock and stroking it. I would have laughed if it hadn't meant spilling the milk; instead, I forced myself to be quiet, listening to his breathing as he sat between us for long moments, masturbating, kissing our pussies, making little noises into them. And by those noises I knew he was close: we had played for well over an hour, it seemed, and his cock was so hard, so packed with blood that it was purpling, its head a wet and sticky mess from pre-ejaculate. 

"Laura," he breathed into my pussy, "Birgitte," he moaned into hers, smacking his lips. Let go for me. As hard as you can. Now."

With a cry, a deep cry from my guts, I did: as Birgitte's milk splashed all over my ass in turn, my cry turned into that of disbelief and delight. Torsten keened, drinking from us, showering himself with us: I looked over my shoulder and he was jerking his cock fast, coming, his cock spurting in time as Birgitte and I sprayed him with milk, farting it all over him. It only took us a few seconds, but he kept coming and coming, both Birgitte and I bursting into hysterical laughter as he sucked the milk from us, licked it from us, lapped it from our asses, he laughing into us in turn. 

"You're insane," Birgitte cackled, her laughter sending one last fart of milk over Torsten's face, Torsten groaning in delight.

"Quite insane," he nodded, panting from laughter, licking his lips. Still squeezing his cock, he buried his face in my ass in turn, but now his moustache just tickled me, sending me into another fit of screaming laughter. 

The surreality of it, the endless, hysterical laughter of it--it's as if all of us had been taking hashish. Soon we all collapsed together, howling, covered in milk. 

"Imagine--imagine--" I wheezed. "Imagine what the head of--the head of a lunatic asylum would think if he saw us now."

Torsten let out a shrill giggle that echoed off the walls. "Oedipal. He'd find this Oedipal somehow."

Birgitte tried to lift herself, but collapsed on Torsten instead, guffawing herself. "Milk! Can't you see? Obviously that's a mother issue."

Torsten let his head loll in her direction. "Are you trying to say I just fucked my mother in the ass? Twice?"

She nodded sagely. "Yes."

"And I wouldn't put it past you, either," I murmured, poking Torsten in the ribs, Birgitte joining me in tickling him until he yelped and fell into hysterical laughter once more. The only way he could get us to stop was to grab us by the hair again; he kissed both of us furiously until we melted into his arms. Finally, he let go and leaned back, sighing in utter contentment.

"Now, then. Who wants a bath?"


	6. Chapter 6

When summer finally arrived, we had to give Birgitte up, at least for the time being. She had relatives to see in California and invited us to stay at her house at Los Angeles, but I had to decline. I couldn't abandon the business and her chatter had started to get on my nerves again. For a moment, Torsten looked as if he was going to say yes, but I glared at him--however, I doubt it was only my glare that made him reconsider her offer. He, too, needed a break; no matter what his ego might have thought, satisfying two women several nights a week had started to take its toll on him. He slept well into the afternoon now, smoked more, drank more to fortify himself for the nights. Both of us needed a holiday from her.

As the day of Birgitte's departure approached, she, of course, got more and more hysterical. She kept begging us, pleading for us to come with her, accusing us of hating her--and if she continued like that, I thought, we soon would. The sex was still amazing, of course, but Torsten and I had to use much harder methods to beat her anxiety out of her, sometimes literally. Even I winced at the marks he left upon her with the rattan cane he'd bought for the very purpose. He hadn't even used it on me yet and as he hit her, a fury bordering on hatred blazed in his eyes, chilling me to the bone. When he started to draw blood with his strokes, I had to persuade him to stop, then hold Birgitte for a long while to help her recover.

When she had finally left, I took a few days off just to relax. Torsten and I indulged in one of the greatest perversities imaginable to us: we made love as normal people did. We did it slowly, kissing each other all throughout, with such tenderness it hurt. No roughness, no harsh words, no fetishes; just his cock in my pussy and nothing more. We relished this closeness, locking ourselves up in our apartment, getting fully acquainted with each other again, drunk on each other's looks, mouths, touches. 

I'd never felt such possessiveness from him before, the man who had always derived pleasure from sharing me with others, and soon I discovered that I enjoyed it. I was grateful of the realisation Birgitte had inadvertently brought us--a sense of how we truly functioned best simply with each other, how much we loved each other. That nearly telepathic understanding we had felt from the start, being of the same flesh and blood--how could anyone else ever compare to another Barring? 

He would clutch me to himself and cup me through my panties, whispering "Who does this little pussy belong to?" and he would squeeze me, pinch me until I'd breathed "You, Daddy" a dozen times, a hundred times, whispered it onto his skin, kissed it into his mouth. I, in turn, would suck his cock for hours, serve him until my jaw ached, ride him until I was sore. 

One morning, I finally had to sodomise him. It had been such a long time since he'd taken anything up his ass, and he sobbed into the sheets in ecstasy as I used the double dildo on him. He was such an amazing sight whenever he fell into the bliss of internal orgasms, shaking as a woman would, moaning as a woman would, curling up on his side as he came, long strings of pre-ejaculate dangling from his cock. I satisfied myself with the other end as we lay there, then continued to fuck him long past his first orgasm, into another, a third, a fourth until he finally clasped his cock and ejaculated all over his stomach. 

"Thank you," he panted into the pillows. "Thank you."

"Mmm. You never did let me taste another man's cock from you," I murmured as I kissed his asshole, kissed it as it slowly clenched shut underneath my tongue. "I'd love to see you get fucked by men again."

He let out a low, whimpering noise from deep in his belly and clutched my head, shivering against me. "Would you, now?" he grinned in narcissistic delight, tightening his hand in my hair.

"Yes," I said, panting against his buttock.

"I think I know just the place."

***

The sex clubs of Stockholm and Paris were, of course, nothing compared to what you could find in New York. There were at least a dozen you could access if you only knew the right sorts of people, and we did. There were even single-sex ones, ones we had both visited a few times, but since I was to join Torsten this time, we picked the most prestigious one, one that catered to couples. 

The Hermes Club had no fixed abode, but it seemed to have the richest patrons, since its members always gathered in fairly luxurious surroundings. Tonight, they hosted their event at an English baronet's house: I was amused to find the club's membership seemed to mostly consist of nobility, ex- and otherwise. Even as the monarchies of Europe had toppled like dominoes, here the spirit of the depraved European aristocrat kept on thriving, as alive as it had been in de Sade's day. As we walked through one sumptuous, Baroque room one after another, I heard nothing but refined Russian, nasal French, plum-in-the-mouth English and felt right at home.

The evening started with champagne and chatter. Just like at any fine gathering, there were introductions--only everyone used mythological aliases here, too. The only thing that set this event apart from ordinary parties was the room itself. It was a high ballroom with mirrored walls, Rococo paintings with oversized, gilt frames and chandeliers, yet the furniture was extraordinary: there was a strange, many-armed contraption that was a genuine Rococo sex chair, I was told, built for Catherine the Great herself. Other pieces included padded leather benches not dissimilar to vaulting horses and richly decorated, Oriental beds large enough for, well, orgies. In one corner stood a rack full of various types of whips, crops and canes for the guests' perusal.

"I could grow to like this," I said as I sunk into a giant, plush Louis XIV chair with a glass of champagne in hand.

"It _is_ quite impressive." Torsten lay down at my feet over some cushions, took off my shoe and poured his champagne into it, sipping from it with exaggerated delight.

I nudged his head with my toes, mussing up his hair a little. "Show-off."

"It's an expensive enough champagne," he murmured, capturing my ankle cuff and bringing my toes to his lips. "Besides, someone's got to start with the debaucheries. It always takes a while to get people going."

"Let's show them, then," I said and leaned down to kiss him. 

Before long, we had swapped places. I knelt before him naked, he still in his tuxedo and black tie. I took his cock into my mouth and laughed inwardly as I could hear disapproving murmurs from some of the women--to disapprove, at a party like this? It was hysterical. Yet soon enough, I heard those murmurs turn into husky laughs, heard the sounds of people beginning to mate, following our example. 

I set out to worship Torsten with my mouth, using all my skill to show them how to _really_ suck a cock. I wetted him with my mouth thoroughly, using so much spit he was gleaming, letting him fuck my throat, uncaring of the loud gagging and retching noises I made. Whenever I drew back to breathe, I was coughing mucus from my throat, strings of it dribbling down to Torsten's balls--and oh, the shocked stares of the onlookers! Of course, both of us loved it, aroused beyond measure by our own vulgarity. My own pussy was so wet and sticky I jerked as it brushed against the cold, tiled floor; he was straining in his seat as he looked down at me, moaning in abandon.

"Not even most whores know how to give a man a slide like that," he purred. 

"You trained me well," I rasped, pursing a large wad of spit from my mouth onto his cock, slicking it all over him with my hand.

"Yes, I did, didn't I?" he crooned and grabbed me by the hair, forcing his cock deep into my throat. "My little _creation,_ " he hissed as he thrust into me, using me, masturbating himself with my mouth. I was weeping by now, so aroused I was shaking, my pussy spasming each time he made me gag. He kept me in place, didn't let me breathe, didn't let me speak, but I begged for him with my eyes--I wanted him to fuck me so much, so much. Yet I knew he wouldn't do so for a while yet, knew he would make me wait, and it was driving me insane. I shouted around his cock, groaned around it in despair and I swear it was that despair that finally made him come, loudly, noisily: he pushed himself so deep I barely even tasted his sperm as he poured it straight down my throat. Finally, he let me pull off; I collapsed over his lap, gasping. 

"Good girl," he murmured, stroking a stray drop of sperm from my lip, his eyes wicked. 

"You're unbelievable," I hissed under my breath as I pulled back and wiped my mouth. 

"And they love it," he purred, kissing me. "Croesus in particular."

I looked across the room at our host, a man otherwise known as Sir Cyril Smythe. He sat in a high-backed Baroque chair watching everyone else, the king of this court of voluptuaries, twisting and turning his silver-topped cane before him. I'd seen him before at a society event or two and had always found him a mystery, with something cold and dangerous about him, and _not_ in a good, romantic sort of way. 

Physically and temperamentally, he was the polar opposite of Torsten. He was a short man of fifty, with a head of thick, graying hair; as usual, he appeared infuriatingly calm. In fact, I had been surprised that such a cold fish would ever host a party like this--my impression had been of such emotional frigidity, such dispassion that it was hard to imagine him ever even having had sex. When I looked at him, I wasn't sure whether he was pleased or displeased with our behaviour: his mouth was downturned by nature, his eyes always half-closed so he could easily have been bored; he didn't look unlike the haughty pedigree cats he kept. He observed everyone coolly, detached, not a wrinkle on his suit, not a stain on his mauve gloves.

"Now," Torsten said, tucking himself back into his trousers. He took out a long, silver chain from his pocket and attached it to my collar, then got up. "Time to go walkies. Come on." He patted his thigh as if to a dog.

"I will get you for this," I muttered under my breath as I went down on all fours. 

"I look forward to it," he said and ruffled my hair. 

Of course, I loved it. He led me around the ballroom, chatting with people, smoking, drinking with them, introducing me to everyone as his pet. "Isn't she beautiful?" And I _felt_ beautiful, cherished; I sank into my role fully, arching my back, crawling slowly, moving my hips as sensuously as a cat. In fact, I could swear Smythe's Siamese flashed me an angry, jealous glare from her crooked eyes; that's how many caresses and compliments I received from strangers. From time to time, Torsten would offer my pussy and ass for their fingers, feeling for me himself as the guests did: I looked between my legs and shuddered in delight as I saw my pussy dripping onto the floor, a wet trail of my juices following us around the room.

At one point, five men and women were all fingering me at once, yet over all their croons and laughs and hisses, I could only hear Torsten's soft laughter. I looked up and he was glowing with demonic, fatherly pride as he smiled down at me, his eyes sparkling. I could tell he was hard again, his cock of such size it could not be easily hidden even under the loosest of clothing. He had his hand in his pocket and was stroking himself through it, pleasuring himself slowly, tilting his head to get a good look at what was being done to me. I groaned as the guests pawed at me, a flurry of cologne, perfume, hands, skin, beards, coiffed hair. My legs shook so violently from arousal I could barely keep from collapsing. 

"Should I let her come?" Torsten asked them, breezily.

He was greeted with noises of encouragement, even cheers. Thus, he put his heel to the floor and lifted his foot, the way one offers one's shoe for a cat to butt against. "Ask me nicely."

I shivered, so close to orgasm now; the very symbolism of the gesture had pushed me to the point where the waves were already rolling through me, my belly dipping and I couldn't breathe. "Please, D--darling," I begged, catching myself just in time. Again we'd had to pretend we were husband and wife; I couldn't call him 'Daddy' here no matter how much I wanted to. But I was sure he could see the daughter in my eyes, see her as I nuzzled his shoe, kissed it, adored it, looked up into my father's eyes with so much love I ached. "Please, my love, please."

His laughter was so high from arousal it came out a giggle. "There's a good girl." He was about to continue, but something diverted his attention. His, and everyone else's--the people fondling me went quiet and all withdrew their fingers from me. 

Torsten just grinned and shifted his weight from one foot to another, slinking his hips. "Ah, Mr. Croesus," he purred. "Would you like to join us?"

I looked over my shoulder and it was indeed Smythe. He said nothing, only swished his cane angrily as if he was about to plant the greyhound-shaped handle into someone's skull if they didn't budge. The people who had been touching me scurried away like mice. Smythe may have been a small man, but every inch of him was possessed of authority; a power that rivalled Torsten's own, if colder, stonier in comparison to Torsten's sensuality and heat. Whereas Torsten was the very image of the Devil with his seductiveness and wit, Smythe was as rigid and as stern as an Old Testament prophet. That coldness, that stoniness crept into my every limb; I stiffened, so frightened I was far from orgasm, now. 

Smythe glanced at me, smiling a little, but his smile didn't reach his eyes. He turned to Torsten. "Continue."

I looked at Torsten and I could see he was thinking furiously underneath his usual relaxed, rakish exterior. He acknowledged Smythe with a nod, then lifted his shoe to me again. "You were saying, my dear?"

I opened my mouth to continue our play--did even I have a choice to stop, now? I doubted it. But it was then that I felt something cold against my pussy, something cold and hard and--oh, God. Smythe. _He was pushing the silver greyhound inside of me._ I froze in shock, screaming against Torsten's shoe, then quickly swallowed that scream, forced myself to stay quiet. Smythe was the last person I wanted to offend; God knows what he might do if his little whims were not indulged. But my pussy was full of cold metal, cold metal and I shivered around it in terror, staring up at Torsten in shock. Smythe smacked his lips and moved the greyhound in and out, its ridges hurting the walls of my vagina, and I could feel the dog's nose nudging my cervix, oh, God, oh, God--

"Well?" he said to Torsten.

Torsten nudged my jaw with his foot. "Does it hurt?" he crooned in a mocking tone.

"Please, my love, please," I continued, shivering, clawing at the floor, butting at Torsten's shoe, panicking. 

Torsten tightened my leash until he was strangling me, yanking my head up by it. "Look up at me. There you are. Now, Mr. Croesus and I want you to come. What's the matter, don't you want to?"

"I want to, I do, but--" the greyhound hurt so much and now one of Smythe's gloved hands was on my ass, spreading me and I could feel his breathing against my pussy. Despite myself, I clenched around the silver, that sick part of me that needed to be hurt growing louder and louder in its cries, its demands for more pain. 

Torsten shook his head and tutted. "No buts." Yet he saw how scared I was; for a moment, I fancied I saw true concern flash in his eyes. He offered his foot to me again. "Lick."

And he knew, knew that with this act of worship he could offer me a distraction. I sobbed in true gratitude as I began to lick, smearing my tongue with the shoe polish I had applied myself this very morning. Smythe's hand was on my pussy now, spreading it, inspecting it; he was breathing heavily, now, _smelling_ me. And he never stopped moving the handle inside my pussy, twisting it this way and that, and I was not sure I could bear it for much longer. The heat was rising in my hips again, but the pain was nearly unbearable by now. What if he had caused my tissues damage already? What if--

But Torsten withdrew his shoe and knelt in front of me, undoing his fly. "Maybe this will help." He lifted my head up by the chain and pushed his cock into my mouth. It had softened a little; he, too, was nervous and I wanted to hide this from Smythe, sucking Torsten into my mouth as quickly as possible. "Keep looking up at me, my child," he said, with such tenderness, now, as he started to thrust into my mouth, choking me with the chain, with his cock. "That's it. Keep looking at me. Show us what a good girl you are. Come on."

It was then that Smythe lifted his cane, lifted me by it so that I was screaming onto Torsten's cock. Yet Torsten smiled down at me knowingly. As he let the first stream of piss splash into my mouth, I made an outraged noise; yet I captured it, determined not to give us away. Torsten just stroked my cheek and laughed, letting out a stronger stream now to challenge me, to make me gulp him down faster. He tasted sweet, with a strange metallic aftertaste, as if he had been taking some kinds of drugs again. But it tasted wonderful; I was in such bliss that I wondered if the drugs weren't working on me as well, now, and whether he had deliberately chosen this method to feed them to me.

And it was this mercy, the mercy of his salty-sweet piss swirling into my mouth that made me finally come undone. The fact that he was doing it right under Smythe's nose, the fact that he did it as an act of tenderness, of caring, of solidarity in the middle of a situation like this--I would have sobbed if I hadn't been so busy swallowing him down. Even through my orgasm, even through my noises, I could hear Smythe laughing a little, sensed even a little warmth in his voice. Perhaps the old patriarch had a soft spot after all? I was so proud of myself, of Torsten, so in love with Torsten that I fancied we had accomplished something other people hadn't; that only the level of perversity we possessed was enough to stir a man like Smythe out of his frigidity. 

Perhaps I was right; as Smythe removed the cane's handle from my body and brought it to my lips, his smile did reach his eyes. I knelt at his feet and sucked the greyhound lovingly, as if it were Torsten's cock--wasn't my Daddy the one who had offered me this experience? Soft from my orgasm, I did not find Smythe so frightening after all: there was genuine warmth to his eyes, now, and I could see they were a light, liquor brown. 

Smythe took his cane out and proceeded to dry it with a scented handkerchief, mirth still dancing in his eyes. "Mr. Heliogabalus is right. You _are_ pretty little pet," he said, and I realised this was the first time he'd even addressed me. 

"Thank you, sir." I couldn't think of anything else to say, and from his look, I knew I had given him the appropriate answer.

He pinched my cheek, and from that I knew it was my youth that had attracted him; I did not find this surprising. I had not been introduced to him officially, even if we had moved in the same circles, but I wondered if he knew we were father and daughter. Perhaps that was the exact reason he had been drawn to us; perhaps, just like Torsten, he was such a jaded old libertine that only the idea of incest could stir his passion. 

Again, he turned to Torsten. "Would you and your... _wife_ care to join me for a more private celebration?"

"Certainly, certainly," Torsten said as he helped me up. "We'd be honoured."

"This way."

***

Smythe's private bedroom was gigantic, crowded with equally gigantic Baroque furniture, with a massive Rococo painting of a love scene on top of an ostentatiously decorated fireplace. You could barely move for the furniture and the exotic plants and the cushions upon which his cats lay: a grand display of the Napoleon complex at its finest. Amidst all the pompous décor and walking next to Torsten, Smythe seemed even smaller, barely coming up to Torsten's nose, and even then I suspected his voluminous hair added a few inches. 

What I wasn't expecting was that he would merely ask Torsten to take a seat by the fire, and offer him a cigar. The men set out to exchange pleasantries, make small talk, completely ignoring me as if I was a part of the furniture--quite literally, in fact. For Torsten had the bright idea to use me as a footstool, and I didn't let out a single noise of complaint as I moved to stand on all fours between the two men, facing Smythe. It was a lesson in humility and I relished it: again, I didn't have to do anything except serve, freed completely from choices, responsibilities, everything that I loathed about being Laura Erika Barring, heiress. And to serve Torsten in this way, to do it in front of others, to be but a treasured possession of his--oh, bliss. I wanted to prove myself, prove I was worthy of the status of an _objet d'art,_ something displayed to show off his magnificence. Thus, I held my head up proudly, adoring the weight of Torsten's feet on my back, the way he would tug at my chain a little from time to time. 

Smythe took a puff off his cigar and nudged my chin with his foot, smiling a little.

"So, Mr. _Barring._ Tell me, do you fuck her?"

I could feel Torsten stiffening, but he soon covered his surprise underneath his usual, slick purr. "May I enquire as to why you're asking me that?"

"I know you're father and daughter; don't bother to deny it."

Of course. We hadn't fooled him for a second. My heart started to pound faster; now Smythe was looking at me and the fire struck sparks from his eyes.

"Are you fucking her?" he asked again, still looking at me.

Torsten looked around himself pointedly. "Considering where we are, I thought that much was obvious."

Smythe pursed his lips into a pout and set his foot down, leaning back in his chair, eyeing Torsten. "I had taken you for an exclusive homosexual, you see," he said pleasantly.

Torsten let out a snorting, high-pitched laugh. "It's not an uncommon mistake. Although--that reminds me." He yanked on my chain so that I was lifted into a kneeling position, so that he could kiss my ear. "Tell the nice Mr. _Smythe_ why we came here, my dear," he purred in my ear. "It was your idea; it's only fair you should be the one to tell him."

Oh, the bastard. He knew exactly what this was doing to me, the thrill of exposing our perversities to others, the way blood surged to my pussy at the very idea of it. Yet, this proved to be remarkably difficult. It had been so easy to talk to Torsten about my desires in bed, with just the two of us, but to form those words, to articulate those acts, those fetishes while staring into the eyes of a stranger, a stranger I did not trust, someone dangerous--

Smythe laced his fingers and leaned forwards in his seat, his face inches from mine. Like some curious Arab perfume, his scents were a cacophonic mix of flowers, of tobacco and the scent of some exotic animal I could not place. His eyes were still half-lidded, yet keen, dark, sharp. "I am listening, my dear."

I swallowed, licked my lips. "We came here to find him men."

Torsten yanked on my chain and smacked me on the ear. "Little bitch!" he growled, grabbing me by the hair. "That's not what you said that morning in bed," he sing-songed, "with your little tongue between my legs. Now tell him _why_ you wanted to find men for me. What you wanted to do with us."

I blinked tears of pain from my eyes, trembling, forcing myself to look Smythe in the eye. "I--I wanted to watch him."

Torsten was about to discipline me again, but Smythe raised an eyebrow and smiled warmly at me, lifting my chin with his hand. "Well, well. In that case, you and I have something in common, my dear. I quite prefer watching, myself."

"You wanted to do more than watch," Torsten crooned.

My tongue was thick in my mouth; my pussy clenched between my legs again and again. "I wanted to taste him," I murmured. "I wanted to taste other men's cocks from his ass."

"Oh-ho-ho," Smythe laughed, leaning back in his seat, crossing his legs and slapping the armrests. "Is that really what gets you going, my child? Well, well. Are there any other... quirks I should know about?"

Torsten chose that moment to bring his other hand between my buttocks, pressing on my anus with his fingertips. "She quite likes being sodomised herself. Don't you, pet?"

"Yes," I gasped, shivering. 

Torsten let go of my hair and grabbed my chain again, thrusting his fingers inside of my ass so fast I couldn't not cry out. He kissed my cheek, laughing into my ear. "Tell him you want a big fat cock in your ass. Tell him."

Smythe's mouth curled in a sneer and he waved his hand. "That's quite enough; there's no need for such vulgarity."

"Please," I cried, had to let it out, the words tumbling rapidly out of my mouth. "I want a big fat cock in my ass."

Smythe burst out laughing, shaking his head. "You are quite the little slut, my dear," he said in a tone that made chills run down my spine. Whenever Torsten had called me names, he had meant them as compliments, as things he relished. With Smythe, I wasn't quite sure that was the case. But as usual, his face, even when smiling, was a mask.

"However," he said, pulling a pair of glasses and a little black book from his pocket, "I wish to strike a bargain with both of you." 

Torsten pulled his fingers out and wiped them on a handkerchief. "We're listening."

Smythe looked at him over his glasses, speaking rapidly like an overzealous accountant. "I can give you what you want, you know, and more--a special privilege granted to but a few, in a few moments. But in turn, I wish to see you--" he pointed his pen at Torsten--"fucking her." He pointed his pen at me. "As father and daughter. Not now, but at a more opportune time." He turned back to his notebook. "I'm quite full up, but I think I could squeeze you in on the weekend over the Solstice. The Saturday." He looked up. "What do you say?"

We were stunned. I had to look down to cover up my incredulous laughter--Smythe probably noticed but chose to ignore me, waiting for Torsten's answer. I could hear Torsten opening and closing his mouth, astounded. 

"Well." Torsten drummed at the arm of his chair. "You won't have your period then, my dear?" he asked me, deliberately vulgar to offend Smythe's sensibilities, in order to buy himself time.

I did not mind the vulgarity; I was still too astonished at the surreality of a man wanting to buy an incestuous peepshow from us. I shook my head. "No."

"That's settled, then," Smythe said, tucking his glasses and his book back into his pocket. He extended his hand to Torsten, and as Torsten shook it, I shuddered again, expecting lightning and thunder: if Torsten had a soul, I was sure that he had just sold it, and thrown mine into the bargain. I scolded myself inwardly, telling myself I was an idiot, that it was the drug talking, that perhaps I was just jealous. Or perhaps it was because I'd so rarely seen anyone overwhelm Torsten, bossing him around the way Smythe did--Torsten had always been the most powerful man I had ever known. Yet I was sure he had plans of his own for Smythe, nefarious ones, all running through his head at this very moment. Perhaps he was only biding his time, ready to swallow up this little Napoleon so that he could annex his empire.

I wouldn't mind having this house to live in, I thought to myself as I crawled across the floor, following Torsten as Smythe led us through a secret passageway behind the bookshelf. Of course there was a secret passageway, of course: mercifully, Torsten allowed me to get up on my feet as we descended a narrow flight of stairs into the cellar. I could hear the noises of sex above us, but also below us, if fainter: the moans sounded like those of a young man.

The small room was lit like a photographer's darkroom, with only a single red light. I could make out a chaise longue and a few cabinets and facing them, something that looked like a hammock or a swing. A sex sling, then, something I had only seen in pornographic drawings. For in it lay a young man--I could only make out his youth by the firmness of his skin, of his muscles; I couldn't see his face as it was thrown back, masked, his throat bobbing with his moans. And the cause of his moans stood between his legs: my eyes flew wide in shock as I realised the other man was easing his entire hand inside the youth. He must have been working on him for a while, as I realised the youth's stomach was spattered with sperm, his cock and balls bound, hard, dragging across his belly as the other man moved his hand inside of him. The man never turned to us, he was that focused on his task: I wondered if he had performed like this for others before. 

Smythe cleared his throat.

The man turned a little to look at us. He was middle-aged, heavily built, with dark, slicked-back hair and a small beard. He was still clothed but had cast off his jacket and tie. He had rolled his sleeves up to his elbows--I realised both his hands were encased in leather gloves and that his forearms were covered in thick grease. He said nothing, just acknowledged us with a nod and turned back to the youth instead. 

"Acheron. Takes you to Hell and back, you see," Smythe smirked with such smugness that I wouldn't have been surprised if he'd come up with the nickname himself. He walked over to the young man and petted his hair. "This lucky young fellow here is, for the time being, only to be known by the name Acheron has given him. He gives all his playmates names, you see. What is your name, my lad?"

The boy let out the most awful, terrifying of moans, a moan of such shame and pleasure it made me shiver. "H-Hole," he stammered. 

I shivered again at the way the boy said it, at his joy of being humiliated so, but also recognised that desire in myself--to be reduced to but a body part, to be but a recipient of the desire of another, of someone greater than myself. Was this what I, too, looked like when I abandoned myself, gave myself to Torsten completely? For a third time, I shivered, swallowed against the pull of the collar upon my neck.

"Yes, my boy," Smythe said, patting the boy's cheek. "A hole is all you are tonight. Isn't that right, Acheron?"

"Quite right indeed," Acheron purred, and I was surprised to learn his voice was that of an upper-class Englishman as well; deep, melodic. I'd taken him for a commoner; he seemed like such a brute, like the rough trade Torsten preferred for his homosexual exploits. In fact, he was a little too perfect. I turned to Torsten and he was all but drooling: for a brief moment, I wondered if Smythe had not been spying on us, having found Torsten someone who matched his preferences exactly. And with his cruelty, Acheron had captivated me, too, even if I was disturbed to admit it: the strength and the concentration with which he moved his hand in and out of the young man reminded me of Torsten's own power, of those two times Torsten had performed the same act upon me.

Yet this was far more violent a version of that act, and whereas ours had been deeply intimate, this was presented to us as a performance, the presence of onlookers a part of the young man's humiliation. Presently, Acheron twisted his hand inside the boy and pulled it out once more. It was fully closed into a fist; the boy sobbed hopelessly as it left his ass gaping open wide like some grotesque, red flower, so awful a sight it turned my stomach. Lubricant dribbled out of his distended ass and splashed onto the tiled floor; Acheron stood there quietly, letting the boy's ass close further and further with each of his sobs. 

Smythe sprawled on the chaise and lit a cigarette, twisting his cane as he watched. "Excellent work, old chap. Please, do continue."

Acheron glowered at him, clearly finding his presence an annoyance. Smythe must have been paying him very well, I thought; perhaps the war had robbed Acheron of his fortunes, too, like it had done to so many aristocrats. Deliberately defying Smythe, he waited a while, dipping his hand into the bucket of grease that stood beside the sling. He started to ease his hand inside again, but this time, he leaned over the boy, whispering something to him so that we couldn't hear. Whatever it was, it made the boy moan even louder. As Acheron's gloved fist slipped inside the boy again and he turned his hand, I quivered all over, my pussy pulsing again and again: the very sight was so overwhelming in its intensity I felt as if I were the one in the sling, that it was my ass that was being stretched so sweetly, so completely. The way Acheron rolled his wrist's bones just inside the boy's sphincter made my breath stop, just as it did to the boy: when Acheron slapped his cheek and reminded him to breathe, I jerked as the boy did.

For long moments, we just stood there and watched. I had no idea how long we had been there, isolated from daylight as we were; even as we had entered, Acheron must have been at work for the better part of an hour. At some point, Torsten moved to sit beside Smythe on the chaise: he was hard in his trousers, yet I realised Smythe wasn't. I wondered if he was completely impotent, because if this was not enough to bring on an erection, what was? What if our incest wouldn't be able to stir him, either, and he would turn his wrath on us like a Grand Guignol murderer, masturbating over our dead bodies? And I had thought _Torsten_ had been the potential passion killer, I laughed to myself hysterically.

Yet it was now Acheron's low, chuckling, purring laughter that drew my attention, adoration. He spread the boy's buttocks to show us he had inserted his entire forearm up to his elbow. It was a horrific sight, yet so sublime it was spiritual: the boy had gone completely quiet and his breathing had stilled, as if he were asleep. Astonished, I watched as Acheron removed the boy's mask--still shielding his victim's face from us--and kissed him into wakefulness. It was such a tender gesture from a man who had his fist inside of another, but again I remembered my own experience and how I had feared death then, how even Torsten had turned tender, had had tears in his eyes as he had held my life in his hand the way Acheron now held the boy's. 

"Are you satisfied, Hole?" he murmured.

"I'm satisfied," the boy slurred, kissing him back. "Thank you, sir. Thank you."

When the boy was fully awake, Acheron replaced his mask and withdrew his hand, kissing the boy once more. Yet at that moment, the legs of the chaise creaked and a high-pitched moan pierced the quiet of the room: it was Torsten, sliding to his knees at Acheron's feet, insane, mad from despair. "Please," he begged, his eyes feverish. He nuzzled Acheron's erection through his trousers. "Please, please--"

"Insolent boy," Acheron growled and smeared his wet hand all over Torsten's face. Torsten screamed, _spasmed,_ jerking so violently that I was sure he was coming in his trousers; he moaned and lapped at Acheron's hand, lapped at it, smeared his hair and neck with it, sobbing in gratitude. 

But Acheron shoved him down. "Stay there." He helped the boy out of the sling and took him upstairs.

When Acheron had left, Smythe nudged Torsten with his shoe and tutted. "For a so-called libertine, your manners are atrocious. Never interrupt a scene like that if you are not invited to do so," he snapped. "Least of all at one of my events." He gave Torsten's belly a light, but firm kick. "Do you hear me?"

Torsten groaned and dragged himself onto the chaise, taking out his handkerchief to mop himself. As I had suspected, he had ruined his trousers; when he took his cock out, it was still hard, not showing any signs of going down. 

Smythe chuckled and nudged Torsten's erection with his cane. "Impressive; I knew you'd like Acheron. However, his pets need a little... tending before he is ready for another round; we owe him that. He'll give the boy a cup of tea and a few more kisses, then send him on his way."

"God." Torsten cupped his hand over his cock to shield it from Smythe; he slumped back against the wall, still panting heavily. "One night is not going to be enough. I--"

Smythe leaned his hands and his chin on his cane. "Not for a beginner, no. I am told it can take weeks for the recipient to learn how to take an entire hand."

Torsten and I exchanged glances. Smythe was right; I had had enough trouble inserting the dildo inside Torsten earlier that week. Did this mean Smythe was going to ask us to fuck for him more than once? Or to perform some dangerous, yet unheard-of fetish for him? I felt distinctly uneasy again, but Torsten was so mellow from his orgasm he ignored Smythe's hints and lit a cigarette. "Plenty of time before Midsummer," he said breezily and blew smoke rings into the air.

Smythe said nothing, but from the look in his eyes, I wondered. 

But it was then that Acheron returned, pulling on a fresh pair of leather gloves. Without saying a word, he plucked the cigarette from Torsten's mouth and threw him face down onto the floor, then sat on him, uncaring of Torsten's screams and protests. He straddled Torsten's back, then yanked his head back by the hair. "I thought I told you to stay on the floor," he said, calmly. He prised Torsten's jaw open and inserted four of his fingers into his mouth, suffocating him with them. "Or is it that you like to make me angry? So that I will punish you? Hmm?"

Torsten gagged, choked, screamed his answer through Acheron's hand, and it was in the affirmative. His face was red, his veins bulging; he was hysterical from arousal and what looked like genuine fear. Torsten, the man who had paid prostitutes for simulated rape; yet now that he had truly lost control, he was shaking, quivering from lust. When Acheron spun him onto his back and started to undo his clothes, Torsten's cock was harder than ever before, his balls so firm and high I wondered if he wasn't going to come there and then.

When Torsten was fully undressed, Acheron got up and pulled him to his knees. "What are you going to be for me tonight, boy?"

Torsten tried to mouth Acheron through his trousers again, but Acheron slapped him, a hard slap that rang in the room, sending Torsten's hair flying. "Answer me."

"A--a hole," Torsten panted, glaring up at him. 

Acheron slapped him again, this time on the other cheek. "Wrong. I already had a hole in here tonight. What will you be for me, boy?"

"Whatever you wish, sir," Torsten groaned, drunk from pain, now clawing at his own thighs, presumably so as not to touch his own cock. 

"Now, _that_ is the right answer," Acheron chuckled, his voice lowering into a melodic, feline purr. It was exactly the same way Torsten always spoke to me, and I was sure Torsten had noticed, deriving incestuous pleasure from being beaten up by a man who could have been his older brother, or even his father. "Tell me, boy. Where do you want me to fuck you?"

Torsten licked his lips. "My pussy," he said, leering. 

"Wrong." Acheron slapped Torsten so hard he crumpled onto the floor and sobbed, sobbed hopelessly. Now he was truly out of his depth: I didn't know whether to go and kiss him, take him away from all this or call for help. Smythe noticed my distress and promptly, yanked my chain, pulling me to sit in front of him on the floor, my head in his lap. My heart was galloping as I watched Acheron cradle Torsten in his arms like a rag doll. 

"There, there," Acheron said, bringing his hand to Torsten's cock--he was still hard, his sobs and tears indistinguishable from those of pleasure, his face twisted in perverse lust as Acheron kissed his tears away. "I mean to fuck you like a man," Acheron said, cooing, talking to him slowly and clearly as if explaining things to a child. "And what does a man have down there? Hmm?" He brought his hand between Torsten's legs, and from the way Torsten's eyes now bulged, the way he now gagged, I was sure Acheron must have inserted a finger. "What's this dirty little place called? Where shit comes out from?"

"My ass," Torsten choked against his lips, his face visibly flushed even in the red light. 

"That's right," Acheron said in a condescending tone, moving his hand. "This is not a sweet little pussy, is it? Not like on your lady friend, no," he murmured. "It's a dirty little shithole, isn't it?"

Torsten wailed, sobbing into Acheron's shoulder. "Yes. Oh, God, yes--"

"And that's exactly why I'm going to fuck it," Acheron said softly, took his finger out and licked it. "And that's what I'm going to call you, _Ass._ " He helped Torsten into the sling, talking gently as if he was a nurse and not a torturer. "That's what you are going to be for me, aren't you, my boy?" he asked and Torsten just nodded, whimpering. Again, Acheron did everything exactly as Torsten would have done himself: I shuddered, yet my pussy was making a wet stain on the floor again, each touch of Smythe's cane brushing against my flank sending orgasmic tremors through me. 

Acheron was beautiful, beautiful, and for a moment, I envied Torsten, especially as Acheron now spread him open wide, kissing him on the mouth deep and long. Again, I was astonished by the tenderness he was capable of: he now compensated for the pain he had given, pleasuring Torsten with his kisses, with a few, light caresses on his cock. When Torsten's moans had quieted down, Acheron turned to me. 

"And the little lady here?"

"She is to take part. A little bird tells me--" Smythe laughed. "No, my darling. It's best that you tell him yourself. After all, you look so pretty when you do."

Smythe let go of my chain and pushed at my back with his cane, gesturing for me to crawl to Acheron's feet. Acheron lifted my chin, and from this distance I could see his eyes were a striking, pale colour, too--to my knowledge, we had no cousins in England, but he truly could have been one. He smiled widely, a sharklike grin that unsettled me; it looked like he had too many teeth for his mouth. Yet he was handsome, and just like Torsten, his sensuality and the power with which he wielded it made me melt between the legs. 

"Now. Tell me."

I swallowed. "I--"

"Yes?" he nodded, talking to me, too, as if I was a child.

"I want to taste him. After you've fucked him. I--" I cast my eyes down, trying to stop myself from hyperventilating.

He lifted my chin again. "You want to suck my cock from him, girl? Taste his ass? Is that it?"

I forced myself to look into his eyes. "Yes, sir," I whispered.

Without warning, Acheron dipped a finger inside Torsten, pushing it in to the knuckle as Torsten wailed at the sudden intrusion, his body accepting it despite the friction of the leather. Acheron worked his finger in and out for a while, tilting his head, considering me. "What do you want to be for me tonight, then, my child?"

I stiffened, fearing a blow. Yet he remained quiet, waiting for my answer, and fearing he'd slap me if I _didn't_ answer, I had to say something. "A mouth."

I closed my eyes and expected him to hit me. Instead, he laughed, a laughter as warm as whisky, and painted my lips with the glycerine Torsten had slicked his ass with. "And so you shall. Open up, little Mouth, there you are." 

I opened my mouth and shivered in gratitude as I took his finger and sucked the glycerine off it, adoring him, even if fear still coiled cold in my belly. "Thank you, sir," I whispered as he took his finger out. 

He patted my cheek and smiled, then turned to Torsten. Without a word, he took his cock out, spat on it and started to push it inside Torsten's ass. Torsten howled, clawing at the straps of the sling, forcing himself to breathe deep as Acheron forced himself inside of him. Acheron's cock was by no means small: I had heard whisper that no man under eight inches was admitted to the Hermes Club on principle. I had helped Torsten prepare his ass myself, yet I still winced at the speed and force with which Acheron now began to pound into him. But Torsten, the old queen he was, had wanted to be ravished like a romantic heroine, I knew it: he kept panting, gasping, moaning hopelessly as Acheron took him, obviously loving every minute.

Soon enough, Acheron slid into him and out of him with ease. He took the sling and used it to move Torsten back and forth on his own cock, groaning from the bottom of his lungs with delight as he used Torsten's entire body to pleasure himself. Our having interrupted his scene with the boy, he might not have come at all yet; no wonder, then, that he now fucked Torsten furiously, taking his frustrations out on him. He pounded into Torsten so angrily that Torsten was hanging on for dear life, gripping the straps tight, keening, his head lolling off the sling just as the boy's had done. He couldn't touch his cock that way, and it slid over his belly, leaving wet streaks with each one of Acheron's thrusts. I wondered how much sperm there was even left in his balls after two ejaculations; yet the way Acheron now ground into him seemed to hit his prostate every time, given how wet he was. 

Yet I wanted to taste his ass so much, so much: I dared make a little pleading noise. 

"Hmm?" Acheron said, welcoming the pause, wiping sweat from his brow.

"Sir, may I please have a taste?"

He shook his head. "Only if you let me look at your pussy. Get on your back and show it to me, spread it for me."

I laid down on my back and spread my legs, and nearly came the very moment I spread the lips of my pussy, displaying myself to him. It was then that Smythe chose to bring his hand to my pussy, too, spreading me even wider. Oh, I hated him, hated him, yet trembled as he framed my clitoris with his fingers. "It is a pretty little cunt indeed," he murmured, and I swear I trickled from sheer horror as he gave it a little rub. 

Acheron howled, digging his hands into Torsten's hips as he watched us, his eyes flashing so that I could tell he was near orgasm. "Give me a taste," he panted, "give me a taste."

Smythe let go; I got to my knees and rubbed my pussy, then lifted my fingertips to Acheron's mouth. He keened as he tasted me, then bit down so hard I screamed, afraid he truly would gnaw my fingers off. He shook his head like a dog tearing meat off a bone; I was pulled against his hip and clung to him, crying, begging for mercy.

"Please, please, let go, please; it hurts--"

He spat my fingers out and laughed, then pulled out of Torsten's body. "Open up, Mouth. And put your hand on your pussy again. I want to see how much you love it."

I did as I was told, so close to orgasm now I could barely move. Acheron held his cock but inches from me, rich from the scent of glycerine, pre-ejaculate, Torsten's ass. 

"Please," I gasped.

He slid his cock into my mouth and oh, bliss, bliss--I savoured Torsten's taste, tumbling towards orgasm when suddenly, Acheron withdrew and pulled my hands off. "Did you really fall for that?" he tutted at me pityingly. "You are not to come until I tell you to." He turned to Smythe. "Hold her arms back."

"Gladly," Smythe said, then hooked the handle of his cane into my wrist cuffs. I moaned in despair but he didn't care; he put his foot against my back, pushing me forwards, my arms straining, burning. 

Acheron turned to Torsten, staring deep into his eyes as he slid himself back inside. "Now. Have you got a little something for me here?" he said, rolling his hips. "My pets often leave me little presents because they want to taste them later. Just like your little princess here does." 

"Oh, God--no, I'm sorry, no," Torsten stammered, panting into Acheron's kiss. "I always clean up, I--"

 _He was apologising for the fact I'd cleaned him_ , oh, God. He wanted it, then, truly wanted it. 

"Perhaps I can still find something," Acheron said conversationally. "Maybe the day I fuck you with my fist? Would you like that? Hmm?"

"Yes, oh, God, please, please, please--"

"Because that's what you are, isn't it? You and your girl," he said, withdrawing, then walking around the sling and yanking Torsten's head down, holding his cock up to his mouth. "Both little _tasters,_ aren't you?"

"Yes," Torsten panted, trying to swallow him into his mouth.

Acheron pushed him out of reach. "Touch your cock."

Torsten did as he was told, masturbating himself furiously, his ass spasming so that I knew he was close. "Please, sir, please."

"Is that you want? What are you? A little _shit-licker?_ "

"Yes, sir, I am, please--please let me taste it, please--"

But his plea was chocked by Acheron's cock. With a deep groan, Acheron grabbed the sling with one hand, Torsten's neck with another and shoved himself deep inside Torsten's throat. Torsten coughed, gagged, and I could see Acheron's cock as it moved into his throat: my own pussy pulsed again, again, and I wondered if I was going to come right now, without touching myself. Yet it was Torsten who came, now: he jerked his cock so fast his hand blurred on it, his ejaculate now clear and watery, spraying all over his stomach. He was still coming when Acheron pulled his cock out and began to fuck his ass again, Torsten howling, his voice turning into high-pitched shrieks as Acheron buried himself into his balls. He fucked Torsten furiously, his face beading with sweat.

"Mouth," he barked over his shoulder and Smythe let me go. "Come here."

I made to suck his cock, but instead, he growled and took my by the hair, pressing my face against his buttocks. "Lick it. Lick it so I can blow a big load in your husband's ass." 

I moaned as he let go, my hands shaking as I unbuckled his belt from behind and lowered his trousers, his underpants. I nearly gagged as I saw, felt how hairy his ass was, like an animal's: yet this was what I had wanted in some twisted dream or another, I knew it. Secretly, I had wanted something that was the opposite of Torsten's shaven ass, the asses of women, all of them clean and safe. This was the unsafest I had ever been, and just like Torsten, I loved it, the sick creature I was. Acheron's ass smelled of sweat, of must, and as I spread his buttocks, I couldn't smell anything, see anything in the red light of the room. It terrified me, yet that was exactly why I closed my eyes and forced myself to lick his ass, lick it as worshipfully as I would lick Torsten's, sobbing at his taste. It wasn't completely clean, but it didn't taste like shit either--or how would I even have known what shit tasted like? Because whatever it was that I was tasting, it was salty, dank but also somehow rich, sweet, a taste entirely new to my mouth. 

Acheron groaned loudly as he felt my tongue: for a moment, he pulled back just so he could grind his ass into my face and I let him, pushed back in turn, pushing my tongue as deep inside of him as I could, swirling it inside his hole. He let out an astonished, high gasp, then jerked, and I pushed harder, fucked him with my tongue, fucked both him and Torsten with my face, moaning into him like a madwoman. And from his next cry, I knew he had started to come undone: Torsten, too, shouted as Acheron rammed into him with all his strength in half a dozen short, sharp strokes, then stayed still.

I moved aside to kneel beside them, just as I had before, awaiting orders. Acheron looked down at me, unseeing, then slid his cock out of Torsten's body. I opened my mouth but he shook his head, then suddenly leaned over Torsten and slapped him with all his might. Torsten screamed, his ass spasming, beading with Acheron's come. 

"Yes, that's what I want you to do," he purred at Torsten. " _Shit._ "

He slapped Torsten again and the reflex itself pushed more come out before Torsten did so consciously: rearing back from the blow, sobbing deep in his throat, Torsten curled up, shitting Acheron's come out. His asshole looked beautiful, a little swollen mouth pursing out sperm, dribbling it out in thick chunks, bubbles. Splash, another splash as it fell onto the tiles, a massive, voluminous ejaculation, Torsten whimpering quietly as Acheron stroked his half-hard cock and crooned at him, coaxing the last of it out.

I looked at the puddle, knowing what Acheron wanted of me, but he made me suck his cock first. It was, indeed, clean, yet tasted heavenly nevertheless: he allowed me to touch myself again, too, and I cried out in joy as the waves of orgasm were now free to roll through me. Yet the moment when he pushed me face down into the puddle of sperm and put his foot on my neck did I reach my peak: those waves turned into a tsunami, crashing and breaking through me, each lick and each swallow forcing more cataclysmic tremors through me. As I drank in Acheron's sperm, I drank in orgasm itself: I kept licking, kept swallowing, a weaving line of fire surging from my throat to my pussy to my womb, making me roll and writhe and gag on the floor in utter ecstasy. Another man's cock, another man's sperm from the ass of my Daddy, my Daddy. I sobbed in gratitude, sobbed and kissed Acheron's shoe as he released me, then kissed both his feet, hugged them against my face.

"Thank you, sir, thank you, thank you."

He petted my hair. "You've been a very good girl, Mouth." He helped me to sit on the chaise longue, then wrapped a blanket around me. "I will be with you in a moment."

Torsten had already started to struggle out of the sling, but Acheron paused him with a hand on his chest, smiling. "Where do you think you're going?"

Torsten glared at him, his hair in a mess, but didn't say anything as he lay back in the sling. 

"I'm not going to even attempt the full hand tonight," Acheron said softly, "but I need to see how open you are for me, Ass. Do you understand me?"

"Yes," Torsten whispered, sighing ecstatically into Acheron's kiss.

He began to work his hand into Torsten slowly--three fingers slipped inside easily with just glycerine and sperm. After his orgasms, Torsten merely lay there, happy and relaxed, his eyes closed, his mouth open, knowing he was the one being worshipped. He smiled blissfully as Acheron scooped up some grease and managed to get all four fingers in on the first try. 

"My, my. You _are_ open," Acheron murmured and kissed him again.

"Thanks to you, sir," Torsten crooned, laughing against Acheron's beard. "Oh--"

"That's it. Good boy, good _boy._ Do you think you can take it up to the palm?"

"Yes," Torsten panted, clasping Acheron's neck, now. "Please, sir. Please. Your hand feels so good, oh, God, so good," he groaned, rubbing his sweaty forehead against Acheron's. "Please don't stop. Please."

"I won't; I won't."

Acheron twisted his hand once, twice, three times and there, there: he was inside Torsten up to his thumb. I trembled as I watched it, imagining those knuckles as if they were inside of me, in my pussy, in my ass: Torsten stiffened and stopped breathing, then let out a series of ululations as Acheron began to fuck him a little with his hand. 

"That's it, that's it," Acheron said, pushing his hand as deep as it would go while his thumb still remained outside of Torsten's body, rubbing softly on his perineum. "This is where we'll start, next time," he said, kissing Torsten again, chuckling against his mouth. "Would you like that, Ass?"

"Yes," Torsten laughed, dizzy, his eyes crossed from delight. He covered Acheron's mouth with kisses.

"Then make a mark," Acheron said, taking his hand out and lifting it to Torsten's face. "Leave a little bitemark there, just there, to show me how deep I got it."

Torsten did, but only after he had licked and sucked each finger clean, lovingly, reverently. By the time he had started to nibble on the glove, both men burst out laughing, far from a brutal dominator and his victim, now; their joy infected me, too, and I felt myself growing warm, light with relief. 

I glanced at Smythe and he was leaning back in his seat, smoking a cigarette, looking very pleased with himself, the producer and director of this floorshow. As Acheron helped Torsten out of the sling and wrapped him in a blanket as well, Smythe blew a long plume of smoke into the air and stumped his cigarette. 

"Time for tea and crumpets, I think."


	7. Chapter 7

Torsten and I approached the Solstice with trepidation, a mix of sensuality and horror. If anything, the idea of performing for Smythe made our own encounters even more intimate, private. At night, we fucked furiously, each of us making the other swear they wouldn't share this position or that act with Smythe, with Acheron. The pressure that was upon us spurred Torsten's creativity to new heights: he bought new torture implements, new toys, studied new ways of tying me up, just to see how much my mind and my body could take. 

We pushed each other deeper and deeper into the darkest fetishes, pushing the limits of what we considered disgusting or even dangerous. We dared risk the deepest of anal explorations, going further and further each time. He gave me long, luxurious enemas of water, honey, milk. He spent hours treating me, tasting my ass, fucking it with his fingers and his tongue, his cock and his toys. I learned to love pushing fluids out of my ass, that amazing feeling as the pressure of a heavy enema got released, as it exploded all over my buttocks, all over Torsten's waiting face. As he lay there, laughing, covered in milk, I would pull him into my arms and kiss him, my heart light. "Daddy, you're so silly," I would croon in my little girl's voice; I had never loved him more.

And he, too, was learning. Each time he came home from his sessions with Acheron, I would ritualistically kiss his ass, ask him how deep Acheron had got his hand. He'd never managed to insert it completely and Torsten hated to admit that; it was a dent in his pride, as if he was a courtesan priding herself on her excesses. Sometimes he would groan in frustration, embarrassment in my arms when I asked him. Yet I silenced him by kissing his hole, taking it with my fingers as Acheron had taken it, demanding my share each time, reclaiming Torsten for myself. 

The elasticity of his ass, the control he now had over his anal muscles astounded me: he could take much bigger toys, much more of my hand, now, but it was at the art of the enema that he excelled. He preferred thick, heavy cream; just as he had done to me, I would fill him up while stroking him lovingly. Yet even at these games, he was the one dominant, submitting me to the worship of his ass. He would tie me up, lay me down in the bathtub and tease me, torture me: he could hold a full pint of cream inside of himself and present his buttocks to me, fuck my mouth with his ass, but then withdraw just as I started to suck the cream out of him. 

"Please," I would beg, stroking his cock with my bound hands, desperate for him. Yet he would play with my pussy, finger it, bring me to the edge of orgasm before giving me a single drop. When he sensed I was close, he would purse small beads, small trickles of the cream out of his ass to tease me. Sometimes, the very sight of them sluicing out of the now-swollen bud of his hole was enough to trigger my orgasm; often I was screaming before the cream even hit my tongue. And it was then that he would release the entire enema, splashing, pouring down my face until I was coughing, gurgling it out, sobbing in ecstasy. 

My absolute favourite of his new toys was what was now tucked inside his bedroom canopy, only to be taken out for our private games. He'd got an idea for it from Smythe's bedroom, of the Rococo painting of a woman in a swing and a man peeking underneath her skirts. Yes, it was a swing, and a very simple one at that: two ropes and a narrow, polished plank of wood. Sometimes, he would simply sit in bed and read a magazine as I swung above him in some pretty costume or another. On those days he would be content to glance up at me from time to time, adoring, perhaps blowing me a kiss. On others, he would lower the swing and insist I sit in it with no panties on, so that he could kneel on the bed and lick me each time I passed his face. It was always a slow play, delightful, sweet; we spent hours amusing ourselves with the swing, both of us taking turns on it, one admiring and pleasuring the other from underneath. 

***

With June, my birthday arrived, and with it, the memories of our night in Paris with Guillaume. "I haven't forgotten what I promised that time," Torsten said, pulling me into his arms as I arrived home from work. "I've called Acheron over tonight," he said, dropping little kisses all over my face, squeezing my breasts. "So that we can give you a good seeing to."

I sighed into his kiss and wrapped my arms around his neck. "I should like that. As long as I don't have to do much. I'm absolutely exhausted."

"You need to have a nap. You go to bed and I'll prepare you something."

I raised my eyebrow. "As long as it won't cut the pleasure. Or give me a terrible hangover."

"You're nagging."

I let my head fall. "I'm sorry, Daddy. It's just that work is driving me insane."

He sighed in exasperation, gathering me against his chest. "If you are not going to appoint a new executive, I will. We can't let this go on; you're destroying yourself."

"Says the man who's an expert on drug cocktails."

"Nagging, Laura."

I groaned loudly. "I'm sorry. You can take it out on me tonight. I could use a good thrashing."

"Just promise me you'll appoint someone else before autumn." 

"I will."

He sunk his fingers into my hair and lifted my head gently, staring into my eyes. There was genuine worry in his eyes and I fancied he looked older, the lines on his face deeper. "Don't just say that, Laura. Swear."

I put my hand over his heart. I was so weary, so tired of it all; the business could go to hell for all I cared. "I swear," I said quietly. "On my love for you, Daddy."

His face broke into a smile, his eyes lighting up, the lines around his eyes soft, now. "That's my girl." He patted my ass. "Now, off to bed with you. I'll wake you up well before he arrives."

I didn't have much time to enjoy the effects of the drink he gave me, as it sent me to sleep almost immediately. What I do remember was a sweet lightness that settled into my belly, a relaxation that felt spiritual in its depth; I remember wishing I had pen and paper beside the bed so I could compose poetry. I wasn't the poetic type at all; blearily, I wondered what the main ingredient of his drug was even as I fell into a deep, luxurious sleep. 

***

To my great surprise, I woke up refreshed, energetic, if still staggering a little. Torsten helped me into the bathroom and we showered, shaved and rinsed each other together. The water and the cleansing woke me up marvellously, filling my hips with heat, making my movements more sensuous, languid. As we stood under the shower together for one last wash, I sighed happily and held him against my chest, enjoying the warmth of his body.

"What have you got planned for me, then, Daddy?" I murmured.

"Two men to discipline you, to fuck you, to make you beg for mercy, just as I'd promised," he said and cupped my buttocks. "Do you think you could take it?"

"Absolutely," I purred, stroking his buttocks in turn. "When do we start?"

"We already have," he said and turned off the shower. "Turn around."

I was still so blissful from the drug, still so pleasantly sore from the enema that I didn't protest as he started to finger glycerine into my ass. I heard a scrape of metal and knew which toy he had picked up from the side of the bath: it was a large, egg-shaped plug made of solid steel, as wide as my own hand. It always took him a while before he could insert it into my ass completely; I spent at least a quarter of an hour on all fours as he slowly eased it inside of me, rubbing my pussy all the while. I begged for him to let me come, but he stopped stroking my pussy and forced me to contain my orgasm, telling me to save it for him, for Acheron. That was the worst torture of all: the drug was of the sort that made self-control almost impossible, and I clawed at the enamel of the tub as he kept stretching me, opening me for fucking.

Finally, the toy slipped fully inside. I jerked downwards from his touch, but it was no use: the plug weighed heavily inside of me, its broad base nestling between my buttocks as he let go. I was beyond moaning, only panting against the side of the tub, not letting out a single noise even as he smacked both my buttocks. I was frozen in place, shivering, cold.

"There we are," he said and stepped out of the tub, wrapping his bathrobe around him. "Just one last touch and we're ready," he murmured and reached into his pocket. He took out a chain, this time one longer and slightly thicker than the leash he had used on me at the party, and attached it to the ring at the base of the plug. "There. Come on." He gave me the end of the chain and held my bathrobe out to me.

He warmed me up again by the fire, with kisses and caresses. It was hard for me to sit with the plug inside of me, so I lay with my head in his lap while he gave me sips of brandy from his mouth. The stretch from the toy, the drugs, the alcohol and Torsten himself lulled me into a soft, relaxed state. I nuzzled his hand and murmured happily. "I almost don't want him to come, now," I said. 

He petted my hair. "You'll enjoy it. I promise."

"What if I call you 'Daddy' by accident?"

"We'll burn that bridge when we come to it. Somehow I doubt Acheron of all people would find it all that shocking."

"I'm starting to think most people do know the truth." Yet they still refused to speak about it. Funny how many things, awful things people were willing to keep quiet about, simply because the truth was too horrifying for them to contemplate. "Aren't you scared? That one day they will--"

"Take you from me? Lock me up?" he murmured and kissed my hand. "I'd be a fool not to worry. But, as it happens, I know similar things about most of the judges and can use those things against them. Did you know Hawthorne fucks his sister?"

I burst into laughter. "Those two scarecrows? No wonder they had to turn to each other. Probably would never have got laid otherwise."

He emptied his glass and set it down, smacking his lips. "Whatever happens, they're not going to take me alive."

I squeezed the fabric of his robe with my fingers. "Then I'm going with you. I can't bear the thought of living without you." My worst nightmare: being left alone without my father, my only means of escape from the world. Whenever I thought of our age difference, I shut down, pushed the thought from my mind. Yes, speaking of things too horrible to contemplate--I was no better than the rest, wanting to ignore that particular horror completely.

He lifted me and hugged me against his chest. "We'll be together in Hell, I'll make sure of it."

"Like Paolo and Francesca?" I grinned.

"Like Salome and Herod," he murmured and pulled me into a kiss. 

***

It didn't take long from Acheron's arrival until we were all over each other. The men had exchanged a few drinks and a few kisses, but as Torsten had promised, I was to be the focus of their attention tonight. So there we sat on the living room sofa, I completely naked between them, both of them with a hand on my pussy, stroking me, fingering me, all three of us kissing furiously. I hadn't taken more than one man since the orgy at the brothel--that was six months ago, already?--and was desperate, hungry for the two cocks I now held in my hands.

Acheron still wore his gloves, pushing two fingers inside of my pussy, and God, the seams hurt, the friction hurt, the plug hurt but I loved it. Little did he know this reminded me of the way Torsten had taken my virginity, what the scent of pussy on leather did to me and why I was now writhing around his fingers. He stared into my eyes as Torsten was busy holding my head back, biting and kissing my neck like some vampire. Acheron chuckled and moved his fingers inside of me, his nostrils flaring at my scent.

"Your husband is right," he said. "It is a sweet little baby pussy."

I whimpered into his bearded kiss, whimpered louder as Torsten pressed on the end of my plug, both of them fucking me at once. 

"What's that?" Acheron purred. "Does the little baby pussy want to get fucked?"

"Only my cock goes in there, remember," Torsten said, pausing in his kisses to look at Acheron, serious, now.

"I do, I do," Acheron said, not taking his eyes off me, curling his fingers. "You said nothing about my hand, however."

I screamed, but Acheron swallowed this scream from me, sucking my spit from me. Torsten pulled us apart to kiss me in turn, but Acheron took him by the hair and spat my saliva into his mouth. Torsten's eyes flew open wide and he coughed, gagged in shock; now it was Acheron that he grabbed, kissing him furiously. "God," Torsten snarled. "Off to the bedroom with you both. I'm going to show you something."

And that something was me. Torsten told me to climb into the swing and I did, watching the men undress each other underneath me. As they got onto the bed to admire me, Torsten finally revealed why he had chosen to attach the chain to my plug: now, he tugged on it so that I was sent swinging, yelping.

"You bastard," I gasped, struggling for balance, the plug so large it stayed firmly inside of me as Torsten used the chain to control my movements.

"Such language!" Torsten tutted. "I think we need to do something about that." He handed the chain to Acheron. "Would you mind?"

"Certainly not," Acheron said and lay down right underneath me. Torsten left the room and Acheron spent long moments tugging me, moving me to and fro, admiring me from below. He was completely naked now but for his gloves, those infernal gloves he always wore, stroking his cock lazily as he watched me. I squirmed, struggling to keep the plug inside of myself, clutching at the ropes of the swing, my knuckles white. I guessed where Torsten had gone, and also knew he did this to give Acheron some time to work on me, knowing from experience how well Acheron could pull his subjects under. 

"Perhaps I should fuck your little pussy while he's gone," Acheron leered, sitting up and pulling me so close he could skim his fingers across my slit, dip them into his mouth for a taste.

Terrified, I jerked, kicked, but then had to hold onto the ropes again as he loosened the chain and let me swing back once more. "He would kill you." 

Acheron tilted his head. "Perhaps." He trailed his fingers down his cock, his mouth a lopsided snarl. "But you wouldn't. Oh, no; your little pussy would like this inside of itself, wouldn't it?"

It did, oh, God, it did, but I feared pregnancy too much, and Torsten most definitely would have torn him to pieces. I was about to tell him that, but then he pulled me closer, reached underneath the swing and licked my pussy, lapped at it hungrily, noisily. His beard scratched me wonderfully and I struggled for balance once more, but this time from sheer arousal. I wanted to slip down from the swing and ride his face, have him fuck me with his hand, his cock--

"Sweet, isn't she?" Torsten said as he entered the room. As I had guessed, he was carrying instruments of discipline in his hands, throwing all except his cat o'nine tails upon the bed. The cat he held on to, running its soft tails through his left hand over and over. It was the least cruel of all his toys, something to warm me up with for the longest, darkest of sessions, the most extreme of whippings: I shuddered as I calculated the possibilities of whatever it was they had planned for me. 

Acheron pulled back and licked his lips, looking at me. "Sweet indeed; so sweet I could put her in my coffee."

I groaned at that remark, yet Torsten laughed. "We'll turn her sweeter yet." He lit a cigarette. "Cleo."

I craned my neck more to see him better; he was now standing at the foot of the bed, a few feet behind me. 

"Yes, Daddy?" I said, automatically, realising my mistake only as he hit me with the cat; I yelped and nearly fell off the swing, mortified.

"A pet name she uses of me," Torsten explained, weaving his cigarette through the air. "Isn't that sweet?"

Acheron burst into laughter. "Oh, if _I_ had a daughter like this, you can be sure I'd fuck her," he smirked, again with that smile that looked like he had too many teeth. He spoke so slyly I wondered if he did know, and was but humouring us. 

But then I could not think as Torsten knelt on the bed, lifted his hand and snapped something beside my ear. "Remember these, my love?" He held out half a dozen wooden clothespins in his hand.

"No," I winced and closed my eyes. "I mean, I do--"

"She doesn't like them," Torsten crooned past my legs at Acheron. 

Acheron nodded, purred. "And that's exactly why she needs them." He reached beside the bed for his discarded trousers and lifted out something else: a pair of vicious-looking metal clamps, attached to each other with a chain. _Oh, God._ He snapped their teeth in front of my face, leering. "These will hurt even more, of course. But you would like that, wouldn't you, my dear?"

I said nothing, just turned my face away from his unbearable grin, my hair falling into my eyes. He was as bad as Torsten, surer of my perversions than I was. I panicked as I wondered what Torsten had told him about me, of how far I could be pushed, of what my body could take. Acheron specialised in breaking people, Torsten had told me; Smythe kept him not to reward his guests but to make people pliant, obedient so as to exert control over them more easily. A fist inside the body worked better than any truth serum did, he'd said, and I did not doubt that for a second. 

Yet, Acheron did not use the clamps on me yet: he stood up so he could lean in to kiss me, cupping my breasts in his hands. "We can't let you think you can get away with rudeness, my dear," he murmured onto my lips and I wondered if he could feel my pulse; my heart was pounding at the scratch of his kiss, at the thick, wet weight of his tongue in my mouth, his hairy chest against mine. He squeezed my breasts harder, harder, the leather of his gloves creaking as he did so. Finally, he closed his fingers around my nipples and pulled so hard I swung forwards, screaming into his mouth.

"That's better," Torsten said, stroking my pussy from behind. "Hang onto her." 

Acheron did, and Torsten took my chain, pulling the swing back so that I was stretched between them, captured between the two pains in my nipples, in my ass; I held the ropes in agony, sobbing and panting into Acheron's mouth. "Please, please--"

"Oh, so you _do_ want more?" Torsten chuckled. "She really is a terrible little slut for pain, you know."

"More than her 'Daddy'?" Acheron said over my shoulder, twisting my nipples, ignoring my moans.

"Oh, I should say so," Torsten said, and at that, he attached two, three, four of the clothespins to my inner labia. The last two he used to pinch the outer lips at the top; he framed my clitoris with them, snapping them on with such cruelty that currents of pain flew from my pussy into my hips, making my lungs spasm. 

I sobbed into Acheron's face, stiffening from the pain: but it was then that Torsten stood up, too, lifting my head from Acheron's shoulder. "Look him in the eye," he said, a parent telling a child how to behave in front of guests. I did, and all I could focus on was the hungry, wet gleam of Acheron's teeth as he attached the clamps to my nipples. The pain was indescribable; my vision swum and I feared I would pass out. I couldn't even cry; the pain stilled me and silenced me completely. I stopped breathing, even, but Torsten flicked at the clamps with his thumbs, still speaking in a scolding tone.

"Now, what do we say?"

"Thank you," I mouthed, barely audible. My head lolled to my chest as Torsten let go, blue-white pain lashing me from my nipples to my pussy, my pussy to my nipples, all of me taut, become but pain itself.

I could only hear Acheron's voice faintly, not make out the words he said as he tugged on the chain between my nipples and pulled me closer. My body was made of lava, of gold, of heat, pain, pain, pain. As Torsten's cat o'nine tails hit my back, that felt distant, too; the sensation was pleasant in comparison and if I could've moved, I would have leaned back into it. Yet Acheron had to hold me up as Torsten whipped me: he pressed my legs together and moved me further back on the swing so that I could remain seated. Acheron nuzzled my head up, kissing me and kissing me after each stroke; deep, gentle kisses full of wetness, slickness, heat. 

Torsten paused, and I opened my eyes. He was giving me a chance to quit, to step out of this swing once and for all, to stop the game. Acheron, too, held my chin up and looked into my eyes, his face serious rather than wicked, now. I closed my eyes again, drew in a deep breath and clasped the ropes; a shudder, another, third sparked through me as I realised I did not want to let go. I nodded at Acheron and he nodded back at Torsten, who now resumed his whipping, drawing the heat from inside my body onto my back until it, too, was on fire. This was far worse than being bound; the only thing that bound me to my torture was myself, my own desire, my own hands clutching at the ropes. _A terrible little slut for pain, a terrible little slut for pain, a terrible little slut for pain,_ Torsten's words echoed in the furnace of my body. And I admitted it to myself, giving in to it, to my truest self: inwardly, I cried, cried in gratitude to him, the only man who had known me even before I myself did.

Acheron had noticed how tight I was grasping the ropes; he had let go and lain down underneath me. The look in his eyes was adoring, that of awe, yet that hideous, wicked grin of his was back--from this distance, it looked as if he had fangs. And then I saw the reason for his grin: I was _dripping_ over him, strings, splashes of my juices falling onto his chest with each one of Torsten's blows. Somehow, a cry broke out of me through the pain, a cry of astonishment as I saw myself bead, glimmer, sparkle upon the tight black curls on his chest. 

For one last time, Torsten hit me; this time, I was pushed so far forwards my juices dripped over Acheron's face. He moaned out loud, then smeared them all over his face, snuffling into his palm, his cock dripping in his fist. When he took his hand off his face, his eyes were feverish, the muscles on his cheeks rippling, as if my very taste had sent his entire nervous system into chaos. 

He got up, so full of power and fury that I thought he was going to throw me down on the bed and fuck me, there and then. Not even Torsten would've been able to stop him, I thought, and for a brief moment I imagined Acheron forcing himself into my pussy, spraying me full of sperm--

Yet it was the rattan cane that Acheron now picked up from the bed. 

"No," I slurred, already in agony all over, my vision clouded from pain.

Torsten knelt in front of me and slapped my pussy, the blow tugging at the clothespins so painfully I nearly fell off the swing. "Liar. If you can still speak, you are not hurting enough."

"But Daddy, please, please--" yet he pushed his fingers inside of my pussy, stilling me with them, fucking me with them. My pussy made sloshing noises, disgusting, dripping into his palm. Yet even through my own noises, I could hear Acheron swishing the cane behind me, deliberately taunting me with its whistle as Torsten laughed into my mouth.

"He'll give you six. And only upon the buttocks tonight," he said, mock-merciful. He looked past me at Acheron, his eyes as stern as his voice, commanding Acheron as much as he was commanding me. "Draw blood."

I was about to scream again, but then the first of Acheron's blows hit: the sharp, white agony of it pierced me completely, silencing me once more. I bent double from the pain and Torsten withdrew from me, withdrew his warmth and I panicked, about to reach out to him. Yet it was the riding whip he now picked up: he raised his arm and echoed Acheron's blow with one of his own. With it, he struck one of the clothespins off my pussy, sending it skittering onto the floor. My eyes rolled back in my head and I lurched; yet Torsten and Acheron continued, merciless, one blow of the whip for one of the cane, snapping the clothespins off me one by one. I could feel something warm trickling down my buttocks; as if from behind glass I watched, mesmerised as I dripped onto the bed in a mess of pussy juice and blood. Delirious, I laughed inwardly; _pussy juice and blood, pussy juice and blood:_ what could have been a more perfect summation of my state?

After Torsten's final blow, my hands at last fell slack and I collapsed onto the bed, into his arms, into the softness of the sheets, into sweet unconsciousness. 

When I woke up, the clamps were gone, the plug was gone, the swing rolled back inside the canopy; the men had captured me between their bodies, pressing against me from both sides, drawing me into the waking world with kisses and caresses. I opened my eyes and saw Torsten smiling at me, cupping my face lovingly. _How long was I out?_ I wanted to ask, but only a moan emerged from my mouth; Acheron's hairy body rubbed against my ravaged buttocks. He snarled and cupped my breasts; Torsten slid down my body and buried his mouth in my pussy. With their hands, their mouths, they savoured the inflorescences of pain they had left upon my body, sucking and grabbing and drinking the nectar from me until I was sobbing.

"She has found her voice, then," Torsten murmured softly, his moustache glistening from me. 

Acheron rubbed his cock between my buttocks, hissing in delight. "I quite like it. Does she grow louder when she gets fucked?" he asked Torsten.

"Why don't we take a look and see?" Torsten said, pushing me aside so that he could taste Acheron. When I turned around, I could see Acheron's cock was stained with my blood; no wonder Torsten was now sucking it with such abandon, lapping it clean.

Yet Acheron pushed him away, and again, as if from previous agreement, they moved together to arrange me into a position that suited them best. Acheron lifted my behind while Torsten pressed down on my shoulders: I lay with my ass in the air, my back curved like a cat's as they took their positions on either side of my hips. And I did grow louder as they both started to finger me, taste me. One moustachioed mouth, one bearded mouth lapping at my pussy, my ass; long, bare fingers and thick, gloved fingers reaching inside of me, fucking me until I was wailing into the pillows. I looked over my shoulder and presently, Torsten took four gleaming fingers out of my ass and offered them to Acheron: Acheron took them into his mouth reverently, closing his eyes in ecstasy as he sucked my taste off them. 

"God," he moaned, holding Torsten's hand, leaning his cheek into his palm. "If her little ass tastes that sweet, what does her shit taste like? Syrup?"

Torsten laughed and dipped his fingers into my ass again, easily, offering them to Acheron once more. "Perhaps tomorrow morning, we will find out," he hissed, crooning in delight as Acheron sucked his fingers, bit them; I could feel both men's cocks jerking against my thighs in unison. I buried my face in the sheets and groaned, not sure if it was at Torsten's filthiness or the thought of waking up between the two of them. Or the fact that both of them were now twisting fingers inside my ass, I had no idea how many, Torsten's tongue fast and slippery on my pussy. I was burning up; I wanted to be filled completely and could no longer remain silent.

"Please," I moaned. "Please, one of you, fuck me, please, fuck me, please--"

"And that's my cue," Acheron said and nodded towards the plug that now lay unused at the foot of the bed. "Use that on yourself," he said to Torsten, "while I soften her up."

I was about to say that I was soft enough already, but then I saw Acheron take off his gloves and rub glycerine on both his hands, coating them up to his wrists. I had been expecting this, but even if it was no surprise, even if I was warm from pleasure-pain and arousal, I still stiffened, my spine locking itself up.

"What's the matter?" Torsten said, oh-so-softly, leering, the words dancing upon his tongue. "You are being granted a privilege, my child," he said and kissed me. "He's never taken _me_ without the gloves; in fact, I am a little jealous," he laughed. He gathered some pillows so that he was half-sitting upon the bed before me, then took the glycerine and with it, started to ease the plug inside of himself, masturbating with it as he watched us. 

I peeked from between my legs and now saw Acheron was sitting cross-legged behind me, his prick fat and red against his stomach. I wanted to suck it so much, have it inside of me so much, but then one of his hands was in my pussy, one in my ass and I lost all sight and hearing. I had imagined he would start slowly, but no, no; he pushed in as many fingers as he could in both of my holes at once, curling his fingers inside of me, and I screamed into the mattress. I could feel Torsten stroking my hair with his feet, hear him chuckling: Acheron curled his fingers against the front wall of my pussy while hooking his other hand inside my ass and lifted me until I felt he was going to tear me in two. The violence of it, the pain of it--oh, it felt _wonderful._ I had never been filled like this, ever; he used his hands so lightly and so easily, yet with such force and pressure behind them that my spine was melting. 

He pulled his fingers out of my ass while he kept milking my pussy with his other hand; I could hear smacking noises and he was tasting my ass again, huffing into his hand, and the very sound made me clench around his fingers. I wailed, pushing myself back into his thrusts, then stiffening once more as he slid his fingers back into my ass, rolling them inside of me. I thought I was going to die from that very touch: each roll of his fingers shot white bolts of light through my hips, rattling my bones, and my eyes snapped open. I found myself staring at Torsten, found myself trembling on the edge of orgasm.

Torsten just caressed my cheek with the back of his hand, sticky from glycerine. "Now, how does that feel?" he asked.

"Wonderful," I slurred, not sure if he could even make the word out; my tongue was thick in my mouth. I was sure Acheron had all four fingers in my ass, now, yes, I could feel his thumb dipping into my pussy to join his other hand. And it was then that Torsten groaned, his head thrown back: I saw his flesh give, the distended ring of his ass swallowing the gray steel of the plug, sucking it inside of his body entirely. I shouted, shouted and at each one of my cries, each clench of Torsten's hole around the plug a beautiful, terrible wave of orgasm rippled through me, burned through me, scorched me until I was nothing but fire, a flame writhing upon the bed, all white and red and white and perfect. 

I was all heat, all ass, all pussy, all hungry whore's mouth as I leaned forwards to suck Torsten's cock, as I lifted my hips to invite Acheron's hands further in. The waves of my orgasm seemed neverending; I deliberately gagged myself on Torsten's cock to wring out each and every tremor, threw myself upon Acheron's thrusting, impaling hands to force every last spasm to course through my body. I cried onto Torsten's cock, now, my tears mixing with my spit, my mucus, my nose and mouth leaking all over his cock, his swollen balls. 

I could distinctly hear Torsten whisper "My daughter, my daughter," so quietly, perhaps so quietly Acheron didn't hear it for the noise he was making with my holes. I shuddered one last time in pure incestuous joy, at my father giving me this, sharing his pleasures, his lovers with me this way. I was the luckiest little girl in the world, the luckiest, and as I pulled back for air, coughing up spit, dribbling on my Daddy's thigh, he too looked down upon me with such love it seemed as if he was in pain. My beautiful, beautiful Daddy; I took his hand from his hip and kissed it, held it against my cheek.

And all the while, Acheron kept fucking me. I was so loose, so relaxed from my orgasm, now, that he had sensed his opportunity and removed his left hand from my pussy. With its slickness, he wetted his right hand and twisted it ever deeper into my ass. His movements were so soft, so clever, so fluid as he screwed me open, twisting his hand inside of me over and over, skimming my most sensitive parts with his fingertips, beckoning inside of me, inviting my ass to open, open.

"My, my," Acheron purred fondly and dropped a kiss on my buttock, then turned to Torsten. "Come here. Look. I think she could take it all. Don't you think so?"

"Oh, my," Torsten said, laughing, impressed, spreading my buttocks. "I do think you're right. What did I say about envying you, my child?" he said as he paused to kiss me, then picked up a jar of cream and handed it to Acheron. "Now, breathe," he said with one last caress of my face. 

I did as I was told, my ass suddenly empty as Acheron removed his hand to slick it up even more. Both men groaned, crooned as they watched me gape open; I felt a tongue inside of my hole and knew it had to be Torsten. He was eating me up, eating me alive and my pussy clenched, clenched again, so violently I was pushed forwards upon the bed. He licked me from the inside, swirling his tongue inside of me, his chin pressed into my pussy: I jerked and jerked, and as he brought his hand to my grotesquely swollen clitoris, I was plunged into another orgasm, now much more sudden than the one that had preceded it, taking me by surprise. 

When I had finished moaning and shaking, Torsten smacked my ass. "You're a _hopeless_ slut, Cleo, that's what you are."

"And you've made me that way," I gasped, still out of breath. 

But now Acheron was ready. He wedged his hand and pushed it inside of me; it sunk into its widest part with only a few thrusts. But now he had Torsten to help him, Torsten's hand still upon my clitoris, Torsten's fingertips on the stinging welts the clothespins had left. And now those welts served to arouse me even further, so that I was dripping onto the bed from between his fingers. The pressure of Acheron's hand plunged me into such nervous overload everything in the room felt incredibly bright, sharp. I could hear the ticking of the clock from the living room, feel the minutest trickle of pre-ejaculate from the tip of Torsten's cock as it pressed against my thigh, the hairs on the back of Acheron's hand tickling the muscles of my anus. 

And then he was in. In. His entire hand slipped inside of my ass and I collapsed upon the bed, convulsing, staring at the thin striped patterns of the satin, drooling upon them, unable to move. Torsten's hand had slipped off my pussy, but I was well beyond pleasure, now, just as I was beyond pain. I could feel Acheron's weight shift on the bed as he followed me down; as he leaned above me and kissed the small of my back, he turned his hand and I went blind. Only white and black and stars flashed behind my eyes; I jerked and jerked upon the bed, covered in cold sweat, gooseflesh. It was the most magnificent feeling in the world, and I wondered if God did, indeed, exist, and if this was it, Him. 

Yet it was the Devil who now murmured softly to me in my father's voice and kissed me on the ear: "Good girl, good girl, good girl."

I lay there unmoving, unseeing: all I could hear was the jar of cream being opened, a lighter weight--Torsten--shifting behind me. The pressure within my guts eased and I moaned, forlorn as Acheron's hand left my body. Only immediately, it was followed by a hand slimmer, longer, Torsten pushing his inside of me in turn. At the realisation of this I stirred, clutching the sheets with my hands so violently pillows fell off the bed; neither man cared as they took turns plunging their hands inside of me, fucking my ass in a steady rhythm. Torsten, Acheron. Torsten, Acheron. I had never felt so stretched in my entire life, had never experienced anything like this, as if a hundred orgasms now entwined themselves together and bound me, choked me, squeezed breath and life out of me. And all of it thanks to these beautiful men, their beautiful hands, slim and thick and hairy and smooth and masculine and feminine, fucking me, taking me over and over. 

My ass, my pussy now slurped, wetting my thighs, my mound, soaking the bed; I let out tiny cries, yet the men didn't stop, now pushing two hands' fingertips inside of me at once, tugging my hole open. Torsten cleared his throat and _spat_ inside of me, followed by Acheron until I screamed, sobbed from my humiliation, from the perfection of it. They moaned, trembled themselves; I craned my head and saw they were feeding each other with the taste of my ass, with the now clear and liquid cream, spitting and fingering the fluids into each other's mouths. I moaned at the very sight, my pussy clenching and clenching as Torsten smeared Acheron's beard, as Acheron sucked his fingers avidly. Acheron, in turn, shoved his fingers so deep into Torsten's throat that Torsten gagged, drooled, coughing up thick mucus; Acheron laughed, then made Torsten spit the mess on my ass to ease their way in once more.

They resumed fucking my ass with their hands; now they were reaching so deep inside of my guts their fingertips played at the mouth of my colon. I was no longer even capable of feeling revulsion at the idea, no; I was delirious from a joy religious in its depth. It was sublime, transcendental being taken this completely, filled this completely; I felt like an initiate of a mystery cult, plunged beyond myself by what my heavenly Father and his lover were now giving me. Torsten lifted his hand to my mouth and I licked it, too, a sacrament, never having tasted myself this deep before. And I found that deeper, I tasted even sweeter, somehow clearer, shuddering in ecstasy as I consumed this secret off his fingers.

I barely noticed as they moved around me; I only awakened into full consciousness when Torsten pulled me to lie down on top of him, his cock slipping inside of my pussy, I now so wet and soft I could barely feel him. The bed creaked as Acheron shifted behind me, pushing his cock into my ass in turn; it slipped in just as easily and only now could I actually feel I was full. I had never had two men do this to me, penetrate me this way at once, not even at orgies, oh, God, oh, God--

But it was then that Acheron dipped his fingers into my mouth and gagged me with them, forcing my ass and my pussy to spasm around their cocks. I screamed into his hand, onto Torsten's as he shoved his into my mouth beside Acheron's, them alternating just as they had done with my ass. I stayed still as they both fucked me, fucked me with their cocks and their hands, fucked me so completely I existed only for the pleasure of it, for theirs. Pleasure, all of me but pleasure, liquid honey, ass, pussy and ass again, all thick spit trickling down Torsten's wrist. 

They were groaning now, racing each other to orgasm, their balls slapping wetly, loudly together between my pussy and my ass. It was Torsten who won this round, filled with steel as he was, with my weight on top of him; he wouldn't stop screaming as he came, staring into my eyes, his orgasm long and violent. He sprayed my womb with so much come it sluiced out of me as he kept fucking me, Acheron bellowing like a bull as he felt it dripping over his balls.

Yet, Torsten was far from finished. He grunted, clawed at my arms, clawed at Acheron's, slipping out from underneath me and turning us around so that I could ride Acheron. Torsten forced my ass onto Acheron's cock, crushed my body against Acheron's broader one, my sore nipples rubbing against the sharpness of the fur on his chest. Acheron but grabbed my hair and laughed at me, lifting his hips and pounding into my ass like some monstrous machine, his hips lifting both of us off the bed. I was ululating, howling as Torsten's hand joined Acheron's in my hair, as he bit into my neck and lifted the plug to my lips. 

"Suck it, there's a good girl, there's a good girl," he crooned and shoved it into my mouth. It was huge, so huge that it took several thrusts before he could get it past my teeth. Once he did, I choked on it, barely able to breathe, but Acheron loved it, loved the way my ass spasmed once again, clutching him tight. Yet even that wasn't enough for Torsten: slowly, oh so slowly, he started to ease his own cock inside of my ass beside Acheron's. I screamed and I screamed; both of them filled me so easily, my flesh giving way as if my ass had turned into one big pussy itself, a pussy big enough for two thick, heavy cocks. I had not felt this whorish even as they had been fucking my ass with their hands; all the hairs on my body stood on end and cold shivers surged through me as Torsten began to thrust. 

I felt faint, barely able to balance myself upon my hands, choking, coughing; Acheron took pity on me and pulled the plug from my mouth, drawing me into a kiss. But it was that kiss that undid me; when Torsten had filled my pussy, I had been too stretched to come, yet now my pussy was free to clench again. And Torsten knew me well enough, knew from the sounds that I was making that I was close; he pulled me back from Acheron, twisting my head around to kiss me himself. "Spray him," he said, his spittle flying over my face as he hissed into my mouth. "Spray him, spray him, show him--"

And then Torsten's fingers framed my clitoris again, rubbing up and down, squeezing, and I was gushing all over Acheron's belly. I always did this when my ass had been played with long enough, always; yet I had never come like this over Torsten's body and the sight of it was enough to turn me inside out. Torsten kept thrusting into me so that I ejaculated violently over Acheron, so voluminously it sprayed all over his belly, his chest, even hit his chin; his mouth gaped open in awe, his eyes wide as I rode him and rode him, screaming my release. And all the while, Torsten kept fucking me, snarling into my ear, slapping my pussy so that my come spattered all over Acheron, my own belly, my breasts, wetting us completely. 

Acheron _howled,_ jerked up on the bed with such force he nearly pushed both of us off him, and Torsten pushed me over him, smearing my body over him, fucking him through his orgasm. I kissed Acheron's magnificent chest, sucked his nipples, sucked my own juices off him as he kept coming and coming, his sperm now leaking out of my ass, slicking up Torsten's cock. On and on he kept fucking me, jerking long after the peak of his orgasm, kissing both me and Torsten hungrily, clawing at our hair. He kept on rutting into me until both he and Torsten softened, until they both slipped out of my ass, until we all collapsed upon the bed, senseless.

I could no longer keep my eyes open, my vision but red and black; I lay as still as the dead, even as the men's come burst, dribbled out of my ass and my pussy, staining my thighs. After a while, I could feel the softness of Torsten's down comforter over me, felt him pour more of the drugged drink into my mouth, felt the warmth and hairiness of Acheron's chest against my cheek. And the sinewy, bony body now curling against my back was my father's, my beloved father's. His lips were soft upon my ear, his voice husky from satisfaction, full of love, tenderness, warmth.

"Happy birthday, my sweetest, sweetest little girl."

***

In the morning, Acheron was gone. I was too groggy to wonder why; all of my body woke up to pain, limb by limb. Torsten seemed to have been awake for a while; he lay spooned against me and his breathing was steady. He felt wonderful, warm around me, but the more I woke up, the stiffer I felt; he nuzzled my neck and I groaned in response.

"'mme go. I need the bathroom."

"As it happens, so do I. But it's much better to stay here, don't you think? Where it's warm." 

He pressed his cock against my buttocks, hard, heavy; I felt something slick upon it and then he was pushing himself inside my ass. I jerked, cried out in pain; the ring of my anus hurt so much I was sure they'd given it some minor tears last night. God, I hoped I wouldn't get piles--there I was, thinking of piles as he fucked me, still not completely awake, my body yielding to him easily. My insides hurt even more than my buttocks and my back did; the sting of the welts was nothing compared to the ache Torsten's cock now awakened inside my guts as he slid in and out. Yet that was an amazing ache, amazing; each of his strokes awakened me further, the pressure on my bladder making my clitoris swell. Yet I felt a drop, two of piss trickling out of me; I buried my face in the back of my hand and whimpered.

"Please. You don't want me to piss here. We can go to the bathroom together, I--"

"We're not going to the bathroom. Turn around."

He pulled me on top of himself and made me ride his cock; I humoured him for a while, but each time I sat down on it I felt an acute pain in my bladder. "Please."

He pretended surprise. "But, my child, why don't you piss?"

"You're joking."

"Do it." He leered. "Wet the bed. Daddy will clean it up for you; all good parents do, don't they? Come on."

"I--oh--" I trembled on top of him, from the pain in my guts, my hips, from his sheer perversity. 

He brought his hand to my pussy and lifted its lips apart. "Let me have a look. You sprayed him so prettily last night, but I want more than that," he groaned, his cock now even harder inside of me. His smile, his eyes sparkled in the morning light; he would have looked tender if it weren't for what he was now demanding.

"Come on. Drench me," he said.

"I can't. You're so big--" I groaned, biting my lip, trying to pull off him a little, to angle my hips. I closed my eyes and tried to focus on my urethra, tried to focus on pissing, but I couldn't. He was filling my pelvis so completely, my pussy still swollen and sore from last night. The pain in my bladder was acute, now, like a knife into my pussy each time he moved inside of me.

"We'll do it together," he said, boyish, mischievous. "Can you feel that?"

I cried out, astonished as I felt a new pressure inside my gut. He was _pissing inside of me_ , no small trickle this time, but a full, voluminous morning piss. I staggered, and there, it started to flood out of my ass; I collapsed on top of him, sobbing in shame. 

"Come on, come on," he whispered as he pushed my shoulders up. 

His piss now pooled underneath us, warm, bitter, sharp; I had no choice but to lean back and let go. Wailing, I focused all of myself on my bladder once more and pushed, and there, there: the first sprays hit his belly. As I pushed out with more pressure, pissing in a strong, heavy arc over his chest, he was the one sobbing, whimpering through his teeth. 

"Laura, Laura, oh, Laura;" he shuddered underneath me, now fucking me harder, pushing his hips up into me, still holding my pussy open. "Give it to me, give me your piss, give it to me--" he stuck out his tongue and leaned forward. Shuddering in disgust, in disbelief, in _delight_ I sprayed his chest, sprayed his eyes, sprayed his moustache, his trembling tongue. With a high-pitched wail, he fell back on the cushions, staring up at me, my piss glittering upon his eyelashes, fucking me furiously as I emptied myself over him. My piss flowed down his chest, pooled in the hollow of his throat, streamed in rivulets down his shoulders. I squeezed out every last drop for him, a sweetness to match his bitterness, mingling our piss, a sugary scent now filling the room. 

Finally, I collapsed on top of him while he still rutted inside of me. My knees were now wet; we lay in a puddle of our own making. Yet he kept on fucking me, his thrusts frantic, now; he took my hair in his wet hands and devoured my mouth. "I can feel it," he groaned, "you're dirty inside, I can feel it, feel it, tell me you want to taste it, tell me you want it, it's so perfect now, this morning, don't spoil it, please tell me--"

I screamed into his shoulder, clawing at his shoulders in hatred of him because he was right. I wanted to, wanted to finally make true that orgasm trigger of his. Again he had plunged me into our first sin, the first shock of the nature of his love for me, to the filthiest end of all perversions. This was us exactly, even more than last night's fetishes had been, when he had fucked me as a rake and not as a Barring. And in that moment I felt how fleeting this all was, felt the passage of time, the preciousness of life so acutely it tore at my heart. Yes, amidst the filthiest of human secretions I was keenly aware of how unique this moment was, how unique we were, the only time the Barring curse had incarnated as two people at once. A man and a woman, one young and one old, one soft and one thin, one pussy, one cock, smeared with piss, with--

"Let me taste it, let me taste it, let me taste it," I whimpered, like a child begging for candy, making myself tinier in his arms, squeezing my ass around him. "Why are you keeping it from me, Daddy?"

"Say it, say it--" with a moan, he pulled out, still holding me by the hair, kneeling in front of me. His cock bobbed in front of me, slapped against his belly, shining. It was clear, stinking of piss, with just the tiniest, thinnest white streak of foam, of anal mucus, and in that streak, a yellow tint, a brown diluted, like a drop of flavouring in cream--

I looked up into his eyes and encircled the root of his cock with my hand, lifting it nearer, nearer. "Piss and shit and come," I simpered and _swallowed._ And oh, it was sweet, sweeter than ever before, that thick foam spreading upon my tongue. It did not taste at all like I had expected it to; the taste was the same as before, only sharper; but then he was shouting, thrusting so deep into my throat I gagged and his piss burst out of my ass, spraying down my thighs. He was coming, his come thin, watery, far more bitter and less pleasant than the foam. To think that my dirty ass tasted better than his sperm, oh, to think that even now I wanted more, that I could never go back now, the sick craving in me stronger than ever before. This realisation horrified me, made me delirious; I screamed so hard that I inhaled his come by accident, coughing, sperm now running out of my nose, yet he kept holding onto my head, fucking my throat until he was sated.

"Now, how did that taste?" he asked as he held me in his arms, in the puddle that was still spreading all around us. 

"I hate you," I said, tracing the piss now drying on his sternum.

"That good?" he chuckled.

"That's not what it should have tasted like. It was _sweet,_ " I said, shuddering. "I know it's probably just the saccharine, but how--"

"You'll have to let me sample it myself the next time," he said and kissed me, trying to suck the traces of the taste from my tongue.

 _The next time._ When? And where would all this lead to? Would we soon be wallowing in our own shit, like pigs? What would be enough for him? _For me?_ Was there such a thing as 'enough' for us? He frightened me, I frightened _myself_ and as I lay in his arms upon the piss-drenched bed, I wondered if I was finally going completely insane.


	8. Chapter 8

It was a Canadian I appointed as the executive of Barring Industries. Herbert Alistair was, to be frank, a complete and utter bore, but the only one capable of wrangling the chaos, I thought. He was all tweed and white walrus moustache and Victorian values, but he was also good at keeping a tight rein on all the smaller bosses. So far, so good, I thought, and poked my tongue at the office as I left it for the last time as an executive. 

The freedom was giddying, and for a few days I felt restless, strange, my moods swinging from elation to crushing depression because I had so little to do during the day, now. Torsten wanted his freedom and I wasn't going to infringe upon that, so I rarely followed him to the horse races, occult bookstores, cafés and whatever other places he frequented. I had to invent things to do, so I threw myself into vanity--beauty parlours, hairdressers, shopping--but still, there was something missing. So I picked up the telephone and called Birgitte, still on the West Coast, marathon calls that lasted all morning.

She was doing fine, she said. She'd come back in July or August, and then we would have a whale of a time, she said--I could tell she'd been missing me more than I'd been missing her. Soon enough, I knew all about the social life of Los Angeles, knew who was having affairs with whom, what the latest fads were, which exotic pet this and that movie star had bought. It was all so frightfully _amusing,_ Birgitte said, while I was bored out of my wits. She only ceased her twittering when I had the idea of seducing her through the telephone, telling her in exact detail what I would do to her once she got back. I told her to masturbate and going by her rapid breathing and other, less subtle noises, I was successful: once I told her I was going to slip my entire hand inside of her, I could hear the little broken sobs that I always recognised for her orgasm.

At least I got some satisfaction out of that, I thought as I replaced the receiver. Yet I wasn't even very wet, feeling somehow distanced from it all. I wanted more than this, wanted the sorts of adventures Torsten had, jealous of his liberty. He could go to places where no woman was safe, at least not while wandering on her own; he could pick up men wherever he wished. I wish I'd had that, the simplicity of anonymous sex, of just bending over in the right sort of establishment with a guarantee I would be fucked hard, no questions asked. Whenever he came home smelling of strange men, I would pounce him, sniff him, lick the taste of those other men off him, try and suck traces of their sperm from his mouth, his ass. On other days, I would lock him in and make him fuck me all day, urge him into creating the most elaborate plays and seductions just to fill the emptiness.

I still visited the office once a week to stay on top of what was happening. Business was still going strong--our saw mills, smelters and hydroelectric plants were still the most profitable in Sweden, and through Alistair's connections, we were about to expand into Canadian timber as well. I was overjoyed--any concerns I'd had about Alistair's skills were rapidly dissolving.

"Oh, and there's an investor looking to join forces with you," Alistair said. "Big money. He's offering to buy the majority of the shares in exchange for his distribution network and marketing."

"Ignore him," I said, smiling, still giddy. "I'm not selling." 

"You haven't heard his price."

"I'd need to hear his name first."

"Smythe."

I burst into laughter. " _Definitely_ not selling." The gall of the man! He had more money than he could spend in a lifetime, making Torsten and I look as poor as church mice.

However, I was no longer laughing as I walked home. Smythe didn't seem like the sort of man you would want to say no to--not without consequences. Yet I found it odd that he should see us as some sort of threat, because we certainly weren't. In that case, it could be nothing but neurosis, some sort of mad jealousy--I wondered if this was what all millionaires ended up like, gluttons for money, needing to swallow others up even if they had a fortune to retire upon. Simply because swallowing was what they'd been doing for years and could not stop swallowing, deriving a sadistic pleasure from the act. I was guilty of the same thing and admitted it to myself freely; Torsten and I celebrated the fact. The heady rush of another merger, another small company incorporated into the sprawling leviathan that was Barring Industries--oh, always an occasion for celebration. 

Yet even we were not as obsessed with power and control as Smythe was. Not for its own sake, anyway--we much preferred to gorge ourselves on its fruits. What would be the point of riches if you could not spend them and indulge all your senses within this ridiculously short lifespan you had on this earth? Yet there Smythe was, a miser in his mansion, his fancy furniture reserved for his cats, hosting orgies but never taking his prick out himself. Therefore, his perversity was greater than ours, distanced as it was from the world of the senses--he bought beautiful things, brought in beautiful people simply to look at them, never to touch them, to fuck them. I remembered the art collections of the Pope and wondered if Smythe had been brought up Catholic: it would explain his love of ostentatiousness paired with terrible self-denial. 

Oh, but what was I psychoanalysing him for? I could keep guessing and theorising until kingdom come and it still wouldn't change the facts. Smythe was after us; and for a man of his position and wealth, he could use whatever means necessary to get what he wanted. My heart was pounding in my chest as I stepped into the elevator; my hands were shaking as I took the cup of coffee Ulla brought me. I told her to brew another large potful and sent her home early. I needed time to think. The coffee, however, only made me jittery, and I was halfway into total hysteria by the time Torsten arrived. 

He was in a cheery mood, whistling--probably had made a profit at the racetrack again--but as he joined me on the sofa, he finally noticed the state I was in. 

"Do you want to tell me?" he said, sipping from his own cup calmly, relaxed, rocking his foot.

"You won't like it," I said, shaking my head. "It's Smythe. He wants to buy us. The company."

He burst into laughter. "Whatever for?"

"I laughed, too, when I first heard about it," I said. 

"He has bigger fish to fry, surely? What's he playing at?"

I set my cup and saucer down; by now, my hands were shaking so that the porcelain made an infernal clatter against the silverware. "It's personal; it has to be. But why us? We haven't stood in his path." I squeezed the bridge of my nose with my fingertips. "He barely knows us. What is there about us, or the company, that's so special that he would want to snatch it? I've been thinking about it all day and I still don't understand it."

"Perhaps he's in love with you," Torsten quipped. "Or me."

"Stop it. You know he's frigid, impotent."

"Jealous of our sex lives, then," he offered.

_"Torsten."_

That shut him up. He was no longer smiling and set his cup and saucer down beside mine. He lit a cigarette and leaned back, smoking quietly for a long while, thinking. 

I just kept wringing my hands. "Whatever it is, we've got to do something," I said. 

"I presume you rejected his offer outright?"

"Yes."

"Well, then. I'm sure he wants to re-negotiate. Perhaps he's going to tell us come Saturday."

I shuddered. "I'm not performing for a man who wants to eat me alive." 

Torsten stumped his cigarette. "What makes you think he wants to eat us alive, anyhow? Perhaps it would be better if we just took the money and ran. Forgot about the company, ran away to California, spent the rest of our lives in the sunshine."

I stared at my hands, thinking about Forssa. I had hated the estate when I'd been a child, but now it seemed more precious to me than anything else: why, Smythe had probably never even been to Sweden. He wouldn't know how the forests would look like, right now, lit by the perpetual dusk of the midsummer nights; the way the colours of the sunset flickered upon the river like flames. The joining of fire and water, the roar of the falls, the very landscape from which the Barrings had risen to glory; the whisper of the Devil upon the leaves. The mere thought of some dry Englishman adding all of it to his fortunes, as just another name in his books--

"I'm not going to sell," I said quietly, with my hands clenched into fists. 

Torsten lifted his hands in a gesture of retreat. "I'm going to remain neutral on the matter."

I hated him, then. "You _coward._ "

"It's what's kept me alive," he snapped. "That man--" he leaned towards me, as if to make sure we weren't being listened, even if there was no one but us in the apartment. "You know there have been rumours."

I rolled my eyes. "Hoffmann committed suicide." 

"Or so they said."

"I don't believe this," I groaned and buried my face in my hands. For a moment, Torsten's idea of running away, of leaving everything behind tempted me. Was I being a sentimentalist? Attaching too much value to names and places? It was a weakness I had often mocked in others, and now I was succumbing to it myself. What had happened to Laura the empress, the goddess, the lioness? 

"Have I become soft?" I asked, quiet, my throat creaking from fatigue. 

He looked at me, then, long; his face unreadable. "I suppose only time will tell."

"Please." I slumped in his arms, my head in his lap. "You're going to have to help me. Help me stand up to him."

"On one condition."

"What's that?"

"We give him--and ourselves--time. See what sort of man he is before we decide what to do. Perhaps it was all a whim, or even a joke. He still wants to watch us, so I can't see him wanting business to get in the way of his pleasure." He kissed my hair. "Who knows, maybe the sex will soften him up."

"If he hasn't murdered us in our beds before that," I murmured. 

"Don't be silly," Torsten said, but in his voice, I could hear a croak of doubt, of fear.

***

"Tonight, we'll astound him," Torsten declared over our Solstice lunch. "We'll seduce him, bring him out of his monkish torpor." He poked at the air with his fork. "If you and I of all people can't do it, no one can." 

I took a long sip of my Chablis and shook my head. "He wouldn't let us touch him."

Torsten shrugged. "Then we'll make him touch us. Make it impossible for him not to. And then--" he stabbed his fork into his quail--"we fuck him senseless. To the point where he will be begging to sell _his_ fortune to _us._ "

"I like the sound of that," I chirped, flirtier, now, cheered by the wine and his conspiratorial tone. 

"I thought you might. But first, we'll have to give him the show of a lifetime."

I ran my foot up his leg. "And how do you propose we do that?"

He mopped his mouth. "I've got it all planned out. Now, listen."

***

Despite myself--or exactly because of myself--I was aroused, the act of going against my best instincts stirring a perverse abandon in me. I was humming, buzzing, flowing, as clear and as light as the wine itself. By the time Smythe arrived, I was purring against Torsten, snuggled up in his lap in my schoolgirl's outfit, languid, voluptuous. I wasn't annoyed even when Smythe wrinkled his nose at his surroundings, because I'd expected him to do so. He looked at our apartment with such disdain it was clear he thought it too much in the style of the nouveau riche, then cast a scornful glance at us, too, as if questioning the authenticity of our titles. 

Yet I knew something he didn't, and that gave me more confidence than the wine ever could have. "I had an interview with him last night," Torsten had told me. "Asked about his preferences. They run very young, just as I had suspected. 'Twelve is the ideal age,' he'd said, 'still too young to yield like a whore, old enough to keep quiet about it'. Yes, charming, I agree. You should have seen his face when I told him that twelve was the age at which I'd first claimed you! I saw his pupils dilate, saw his hands gripping his chair more tightly. He was imagining you at that age, his lust finally stirred. And the moment I told him I was a skilled enough hypnotist to make you twelve again, well. Of course, he wished to see it."

So there I sat in our living room, a little girl, following the movements of Torsten's hands, falling into his eyes. Only a light trance, he'd told me, enough to loosen my inhibitions. I was to signal to him if I wanted to go deeper--it was Smythe we both focused on ensnaring, now, and my playing the part of the subject would distract him from noticing how he himself was being manipulated. Torsten made a performance of the hypnotism, but little did Smythe know that Torsten was feeding _him_ sounds, shapes, concepts to pull him under. A slightly altered pronunciation of a word here, a repeated mention of a colour there, subliminally feeding him the syllables of the single word to control him by, a trigger word he had planted into Smythe's brain the previous night.

As I slid deeper into my relaxation, I watched Smythe sink deeper still: he sat in a chair next to us, cigar in hand, completely alert, oblivious. I, however, became happier, even lighter than I had been, all worry and stress leaving me. Torsten was opening me to my very core so that now I was filling with warmth and love, a Laura happy in the company of her cherished father. Oh, I loved this, loved becoming the child, the child who had waited for her father forever. And now that father had taken her on a trip to a big city, to a big apartment, everything so big--I felt myself shrinking in the room, feeling as small as that child. Wide-eyed, I looked around myself, the adult Laura's consciousness shrunk to a miniscule size, only aware enough to feel a thrill at the perfection of my voice as it spilled out of me again, completely that of a child.

"Who's that gentleman, Daddy?" I asked, kicking my feet a little against the foot of the sofa--somehow, my feet didn't even reach the floor, now.

"That's Sir Cyril Smythe. He's a very important man, Laura; we're very honoured to have him here tonight. And guess what?"

"What, Daddy?"

"He's come all the way here just to see _you._ "

"Me?" I asked, a little too loudly, the exact way I would have at twelve. My heart was pounding--some important gentleman to see me? But that excitement was soon crushed by worry. I'd been restless at school, unable to concentrate, and the schoolmistress had told Grandfather. And perhaps Grandfather had told Torsten. "Mister Smythe has not come to take me away, has he?"

Torsten laughed, warmly; he, too, was entranced by the magic of this play. I knew and he knew that no matter how many people we slept with, no matter what drugs we took, no matter what fetishes we indulged in, nothing could ever give him--or me--the sublime satisfaction the play of Laura the girl and Torsten the father did. Would anyone have believed me had I told them our love, twisted as it was, was the opposite of Smythe's desire to abuse? We were not just playing characters, not just acting out fantasies: during scenes like these, we brought forth our deepest selves, our deepest desires, primal ones, desires so old they had existed in the aether before we had arrived to clothe them in flesh and blood. As the Turk knows God has written his destiny down in his book, so we knew the Devil had written our destiny down for us, instilling in Torsten a lust for me in the womb, long before I was even born. 

Torsten lay his hand on my bare knee, hot, sweaty; I could see his cock stir a little in his trousers. "Sir Cyril is here to see you, literally. He found you as beautiful as a doll and wanted to look at you. And that's what he will do. Look at you."

"Is he a doll-collector, then?" I asked.

Torsten laughed once more. "You could call him that." He looked over his shoulder at Smythe. "What would you like her to do, Sir Cyril?"

Smythe lifted his cane a little. "Play with her," he said, seeming unimpressed. "As we agreed to."

I squirmed in delight. "Oh! I know lots of games we can play--"

"Quiet," Torsten said, sternly. "This is a very serious matter, my child."

"I'm sorry, Daddy," I said, casting my eyes down, but immediately looked back up at him. "But I don't understand. He just said he wanted us to play?"

Torsten lifted my chin with such gentleness, with such lascivious languor in his eyes that a shiver ran straight from my jaw to my pussy. "He wants us to play a very special game, my child. A serious one, one only adults are allowed to play. But you are a precocious child, aren't you, Laura? Big enough to play grown women's games? Even if it might hurt a little?"

Now his eyes grew colder, hungrier and the shivers that ran through me turned into those of fear. _Pretend rape,_ Torsten had said. _He can't get it up if the girl doesn't resist._ That fear now twisted inside of me, strangling my innards. Torsten could truly hurt me if he wanted to, and I had no doubt whatsoever that he would; the adult me and the child me were both worried about what he would do to give Smythe _the show of a lifetime._ And yet, the child-whore in me, the masochist in me, the slave in me now howled inwardly in her lust, her pussy tightening into that of a girl's so that her Daddy could invade it, claim it, deflower it once more.

"No," I said, yanking my chin up. "I'm not going to play."

"You are being very rude towards our guest, Laura. You're bringing shame upon the family."

I felt tears spring to my eyes. How many times had I been accused of that as a child? Been told to obey adults, been told to prove myself worthy of the Barring name? And now he was offering to beat that shame out of me, to let me be the black sheep I was, even flaunt it in front of a stranger. More than anything, Smythe's presence heightened the thrill of our incest, affirmed the bond Torsten and I shared, celebrated it. Why had I not felt this with Helena or Birgitte? They had known we were father and daughter. Was it perhaps because they hadn't _cared?_ For them, our incest had not been a fetish and neither had my youth stirred Helena especially; they had only been flavours, spices in the world of flesh she had always devoured so voraciously. For the men at the brothel, I had been a prostitute playing the part of a man's daughter. Never had we had the chance to display our incest so openly, to revel in it, to wallow in it, to present it to a connoisseur as a rare delicacy.

And now, in our living room sat a genuine molester, a genuine monster--a man only capable of deriving pleasure from this level of sin, perhaps something he had always dreamt about but had never had a chance to accomplish in life. As far as I knew, Smythe had little family, no daughters or nieces to ruin--thankfully. To him, we were a rare luxury, a treasure, something money could not buy. I derived a satisfaction from this, from our own preciousness, rarity, uniqueness. This pleased the coquette in me, the courtesan in me--I yearned to seduce Torsten, to spread my legs for him right now. 

But that wouldn't do. Thus, I continued to feign shame. "I don't want to play if it hurts," I said to Torsten, stuttering a little. 

"How do you know whether it's going to hurt if you've never tried it?" Torsten laughed.

"You just said it might!"

"Yes, _might,_ " Torsten said, pulling me to sit in his lap. "Or it might not. There, is that better?"

I nodded. I felt safer in his arms, against the warmth of his body. 

"Now," Torsten said, kissing my forehead. He slid his hand up to my thigh, as if rubbing warmth into it, his thumb playing at the hem of my skirt. "Will you let Daddy play with you?"

I bit my lip. "Maybe."

He slid his hand between my legs, rubbing against my panties. "'Maybe?' Doesn't this feel good?"

I yelped, my eyes widening as he dragged his knuckles against my slit. "I-I don't know."

He tutted. "But, Laura, you're soaking! Are you so scared you've wet yourself, my poor child?" he laughed. "Come on. Take these off. Let Daddy have a look."

As I did, I noticed he couldn't resist sniffing his fingers: I glanced at Smythe and saw that his nostrils were widening, too, and that he was leaning forwards in his seat. I was about to drop the panties onto the floor, but Torsten took my wrist. "Now, give these to the nice Mr. Smythe."

That unsettled Smythe. His eyes widened as I hopped off Torsten's lap and handed him the panties. He stared at me furiously, as if we had gone mad, yet I saw a tremor fly across his cheeks, a tremor of arousal as he smelled me. Without a word, he held out the handle of his cane. I hung my panties upon it and couldn't help but smile at him; the child in me was amused by this game, the adult in me delighted at the way we had caught him off guard. 

Torsten rearranged me in his lap so that I was sitting sideways in it, facing Smythe. Torsten held me close, nuzzling my face, then slipped his hand between my thighs once more. "Now. Do you want to know what this game is called, my child?"

"Please tell me, Daddy."

He tickled my slit with his fingertips. "It's called 'pulling the sugar.'"

I all but fell off his lap at his caress; I wrapped my arms around his neck for balance. "What--what's this got to do with sugar?"

"Because this is how you make webs out of sugar," he said, dipping his fingers between my pussy lips, swirling them. Then, with absolute, slow precision, he pulled a long string of wetness from my pussy. "There," he murmured against my cheek. "Just like that."

"Oh--"

"Do you want me to do it again?" he murmured, his smile as sweet as my scent as he held his fingers up to my face. 

My pussy pulsed; my voice was now quavering. Anything to have his fingers, my father's beloved fingers in my pussy again. "Please."

So he did, spending a long time lifting strings of sweetness out of my pussy, and each time they became thicker, heavier, glimmering in the air between us. He continued until his entire hand was wet, until I moaned each time he dipped his fingers into my slit, until the entire room smelled of my arousal. 

He chuckled in my ear and looked at Smythe. "Beautiful, isn't she?"

Smythe twisted his cane; his smirk never reached his eyes. "Quite the little slut."

"I don't like him calling me that," I said, burying my face in Torsten's shoulder. And I meant it; the way Smythe had said it was again cold, frightening me, an icy terror clutching at my stomach.

"We'll call you whatever we like, my child," Torsten said, matter-of-factly, and curled his fingers inside of my pussy.

"No!" I squealed. "Stop it, Daddy! That hurts!"

"Oh?" Torsten feigned surprise, his eyes wide, his voice hideous, mocking, pitying. "What's the matter? Don't you want to play with Daddy any more?"

"No! Take them out!"

"But I _so_ want to play with you, my child," he crooned, sugary, merciless. 

He pushed his fingers in harder and I screamed, from genuine pain. I sobbed into his shoulder, knowing we were doing this because Smythe seemed displeased. Now, Torsten and I were giving him the rape he had come here for. I squinted and caught a glimpse of him: finally, he seemed to stir a little, twisting his cane with such force that my panties were now swinging upon it. Yet all of my horror was not pretense: Torsten was so rough waves of nausea rolled through me, making me pant against his neck. 

"Please, Daddy, please, please take them out, I'll do anything, I--"

"Anything?" he said, pulling his hand out so fast my pussy made a disgusting, slurping sound. He sucked on his fingers and made a delighted noise. "Mmm. Perhaps Mr. Smythe would like a taste?"

Smythe lifted his hand and shook his head. "Not for me, thank you." Yet I could hear a hesitance in his voice; his prompt refusal was exactly like an alcoholic refusing a drink, teetering upon the brink of a relapse. I could not see if he was hard, yet, but he was flushed, clearly flushed; unconsciously, he adjusted his tie. 

"A look, then," Torsten said. He patted my rump. "Go on. Over the coffee table."

Smythe didn't protest--just before I turned my back, I could see him stiffening, gripping his cane so tight my panties fell off it. He was still wearing his mauve gloves, but I was sure his knuckles were white underneath them. I made sure to look reluctant, afraid, shivering a little as I knelt and leaned over the table, balancing my torso on it, burying my face in my arms. "Please don't hurt me," I said.

And from the way Smythe's breathing stopped, I knew that he _would._ My pussy clenched as I thought of it, clenched again as Torsten flipped up my skirt and sat next to me, presenting my ass to Smythe. 

"There," Torsten said, the word wet and soft in his mouth. He stroked my buttocks, spread them, kissed the small of my back. "Pretty, isn't she?"

I heard the armchair creak as Smythe leaned closer to me. I could feel his breathing against my pussy and I stiffened; I feared he would push the cane inside of me again. I was terrified and aroused at the same time, my mind in a chaos: why was my father doing this to me? Hurting me, then presenting me to a stranger? Had I been that bad? I wanted to cry; I swallowed a sob in my throat. 

It was then that I could hear Smythe inhaling, smelling me. "Very pretty," Smythe admitted. He smelled me again, deep and long, just as Torsten had done to me on the train. That seemed like a lifetime ago, now; I had never been as afraid of Torsten as I now was of Smythe. Torsten was my beloved dirty old man; Smythe chilled my bones to the marrow.

Yet, his chair creaked again; he withdrew. "Although I would go so far as to say your household is lacking in discipline."

"Oh, do you think so?" Torsten chuckled. "Then I must prove you wrong."

I heard the sound of Torsten's belt buckle. His belt buckle, my father's belt buckle; the sound I loved so much it had sometimes been enough to bring me to orgasm on its own. I loved it, I hated it, and never more so than now: I was not afraid of the pain so much as I was of my reaction, that I would break from my role, my innocence and that the whorishness--which Smythe so hated in a child--would spill out once more. I panicked inside, digging my nails into the coffee table.

But it was then that I remembered the word we had agreed upon, the word by which Torsten had agreed to put me into a deeper trance. "Mercy," I said, quietly.

Torsten swished his looped belt in his hand, then walked around the table to lift my chin with it, looking into my eyes. "I'm going to give you twenty. And I want you to count on each one," he said, smiling at me conspiratorially. "One, two, three..." he snapped his fingers. "Do you understand?"

At the count and the snap, my head fell. A hot and cold rush went through me, making me shudder all over as it washed more and more of my consciousness away, dragging me down with its undertow. I sank deeper into that stream, the stream that was little Laura's consciousness, the older Laura watching her from somewhere far away. When I finally lifted my gaze, I was looking at him with complete obedience, my lip quivering from genuine fear as I nodded. "Yes, Daddy."

He tapped my cheek with the belt. "Good girl. Now, I'm going to make your ass all red and pretty for Mr. Smythe. You'll be a present for him; it's not something ordinary girls get to be. Now, Laura, what do we say?"

"Thank you, Daddy."

"Good girl," he said again and kissed me. 

He did not give me time to think before the first blow landed. It was not a playful blow, either, no warm-up, this; he put the full force of his arm into his strokes. I shrieked in genuine horror at first, thrown against the table, not even having time to gasp for breath between counts as the blows kept coming and coming. He had not left marks upon me after our night with Acheron, had let me heal so that I would look pristine for Smythe. He'd even made me go unshaven for a week to make sure my pussy was at its smoothest when he'd shaved it for tonight: that's where he laid the last three of his blows, and I could only mouth the numbers for my pain. My arms fell slack, off the table; my skin was covered in cold sweat and chills and flashes of heat ran all over me, all surging to my pussy, to my abused ass. I was glowing, glowing and shimmering from pain, unable to even cry.

Torsten let the belt fall to the floor and spread my buttocks swiftly, violently, his fingers on either side of my pussy. He crooned softly as he rubbed my pussy lips, pushing them together, pulling them apart again. "But my dear girl, you are _dripping!_ Is that why you disobeyed me? Because you like it when I discipline you? Hmm?"

The only noise I could make was a tiny gasp.

"I shall take that as a yes," Torsten said, dipped his thumb into my pussy to wet it, then plunged it straight into my ass, making me shriek. "You've got candy in here, too, I can feel it. Slick and wet and sweet," he said, audibly panting through his laughter. "Are you going to give Daddy a taste?"

I moaned against the table. "Whatever you want, Daddy."

"See? She is _so_ very obedient when you know how to handle her," he purred at Smythe. "Would you like a sample, now?"

Smythe didn't answer in words: I could hear him leaning close again. I could feel the cold metal of his cane against my pussy and I stiffened. Yet he didn't dip it inside of me, but--I craned my head and saw that he was licking me off the cane, sampling my taste with just the tip of his tongue. It was a massive concession to lust from him, massive; briefly, he closed his eyes and trembled, savoured what he was tasting. 

But within seconds, his calm mask was back in place, his voice matter-of-fact, analytical. "Tell me, is she always this wet?"

Torsten tutted. "Oh, no. Only when you play with her ass." 

My pussy clenched again; yet I wondered why the men had broken from the play so. Was I not meant to be a virgin? Yet as soon as Torsten had said the words, he plunged both of his thumbs into my ass and spread me open wide. The sudden stretch sent flashes of pain through my hips; yet, true to Torsten's words, they wetted my pussy unlike anything else in the world. My father playing with my ass, my greatest pleasure, greatest. I whimpered against the table, trying so very hard not to lean back into Torsten's caresses.

"Now," Torsten said, his voice thinner, higher from lust. "Would you like to watch me fuck my daughter?" he said, with deliberate vulgarity. 

"If you please," Smythe said, his voice light from irony.

"You heard the man, my dear," Torsten said and ruffled my hair. "Get up. Undress me."

Slowly, reverently, with fear in my heart and my pulse racing in my ears, I undressed my father. 

I knew he wanted me to make a show of it, so I did; my hands were shaking and I barely looked into his eyes as I started to remove his clothes, the shame of it all so real, now. He had plunged me so deep into my trance that this felt like the first time I had done this. My body was shaking--I didn't know if I was holding back sobs or something else, but I felt that I was holding back something that was about to explode, awaiting the loss of my virginity. As I unbuttoned his shirt and pulled off his undershirt, revealing his thin shoulders, his wiry arms with their thick, vinelike veins, I wanted to run. But I couldn't, I couldn't: I forced myself to adore him as he should be adored. With my gaze and my hands, I worshipped the feminine redness of his nipples, the curves of his ribs as they shone through his equally feminine, soft skin. He had shaved his pudendum once more--the child Laura half expected to find a woman's slit at the bottom of his mound instead of a penis. Yet, there, between the sharp bones of his hips, it sprung at me, thick, firm; I yearned to taste its gleaming head but forced myself to concentrate on freeing him from his sock garters and shoes first. When he was finally naked, I knelt at his feet, my hands on my thighs, looking up at him patiently, awaiting orders.

"Do you like what you see, my child?" he asked me.

"I--I don't know, Daddy," I said, terrified at the size of his cock. That was going to go inside of me? "Are they all this big?"

He burst into laughter and ruffled my hair. "Let's just say you can consider yourself a very lucky girl. Now, take off your clothes." He stepped aside. "In front of Mr. Smythe, there's a good girl."

I staggered so much that Torsten had to help me up. It took me forever to unbutton my blouse; my hands were fumbling on the buttons so much. But pearl by pearl, I managed to undo them; I shrugged my jacket off with the blouse.

Smythe chuckled as he saw my brassiere, then poked it with the tip of his cane. "Aren't you a little too young to be wearing those things?"

"I--" I cast my eyes down, ashamed of my breasts, always exposing me to unwanted attention from men.

"She developed early," Torsten said as he unhooked the brassiere from behind, kissing my shoulder. 

Instinctively, I covered my breasts with my hands. I could feel myself flushing, my face glowing as much as my ass did, now. My hands were too small to cover my breasts entirely; flesh spilled from between my fingers. Torsten saw my hesitance, and gently, firmly pulled my hands back and used my discarded bow to tie my wrists.

"There. Let Daddy help you."

My nipples hardened, the air seeming far cooler than it was. Smythe dragged the handle of his cane down my sternum, across my breasts. He stroked each nipple with the greyhound as if to make him bite both; I jerked but dared not move from my spot. There was a little warmth in his liquor eyes now, yet not enough; but then I was gasping as Torsten unzipped my skirt, the very sound of the zipper making my pussy pulse between my legs.

With a flourish, Smythe dragged his cane down and yanked my skirt off my hips, leaving me bare. "There we are."

"Thank you," Torsten said, warmly, peeling my socks off, and as he got up again I could feel his erection dragging up my back. "Now. How do you like her, Sir Cyril?"

Of course, Smythe had seen me naked before, but he was enjoying the game too much to break from it. He dipped the greyhound into my navel, his smile widening as I flinched from the touch. "Good enough to _amuse_ oneself with," he purred. "Tell me, is she tight?"

"As tight as a twelve-year old can be," Torsten said, and as he ran his hands up my ribs, I shivered in disgust, in shame, in hopeless arousal. My pussy clenched again and again as if his words were his cock, penetrating me to the depths of my body, penetrating me to my soul's darkest, filthiest core. I had read of this in books, had dreamt of it, being seduced by powerful men, shared by men, and now it was happening, now I was being presented to a sadistic lord as if a slave girl in a fairy tale. My own father my pimp, about to deflower me. I wanted him, wanted this so much I shook, even if at the same time I wanted to be sick. 

In the setting sun's light, Smythe's eyes seemed even beadier, gleaming with an unholy fire. How many girls had he molested? How many boys? How many had he made scream, destroying their lives forever? Had he impregnated a girl, made her die in childbirth, her pelvis too small to push out a child when she was but a child herself? He revolted me, revolted me as he now slid the greyhound to my pussy, rubbing at the top of my slit with the dog's head, and again I wanted to run, run and hide where they would never find me. Neither Laura in me was convinced Smythe would not join in--I was sure he was perfectly capable of killing someone through sex.

Yet Torsten sensed my fear--oh, the way his erection hardened even further against my spine as he felt the goosebumps on my skin! He put his hand around my throat, pulling me close so he could drag his teeth along my cheek. "Come, now, Daddy's little sweetheart," he crooned. "There's nothing to be scared of. I'm going to make you feel so good, so good."

"I'm scared," I blurted, scared of Smythe, scared of Torsten, scared of myself, of my own lust and its deafening pulse in my veins and in my pussy. "Please, Daddy; I don't want to do this."

"Oh, but you'll have to," Torsten murmured as he cupped my breasts, rubbing his cock against my back. "It wouldn't do to disappoint our guest. Please, Sir Cyril, remind my daughter of why you are here; I think she has forgotten."

Smythe leaned back in his chair, one hand on his cane, one on his lapel. Finally, finally I could see he was erect; his cock had made a fat swelling in his trousers, the very curve of it a threat. And God help me, I wanted it in my pussy, didn't I? I hated him, and that's exactly why I wanted him, wanted to be taken by a monster, the child in me who had daydreamed of ravishments. In that moment, I loathed myself and cast my eyes down, shivering as Smythe let me wait and wait and wait. 

Finally, Torsten snatched my head up by the hair. "Look him in the eye," he snarled. "Ask him."

I opened my eyes. The swelling in Smythe's trousers was now greater; he was now skimming it with his mauve fingertips, rubbing it with his mauve knuckles. I swallowed. "Why did you come here, sir?"

Smythe's voice was low, now a little husky from desire, his diction crisp, eloquent, sharp. "To watch your daddy fuck you, my child. Do you know what he promised me?" he said, lifting the tip of his cane to the hollow of my throat.

"What did he promise you, sir?"

He pressed the cane against my windpipe, stopping my breath; his eyes were flashing with malicious delight. "He promised to make it _hurt_."

At that, I cried out, but Torsten was already turning me around, shoving me down over the coffee table. He grabbed my hair and pushed my face into the table's surface to cut off my screams, smacking my ass with his hand, smacking me and smacking me until I was sobbing. 

"Please, Daddy, please, don't, please--" I writhed and kicked, my head thrashing in his fist. My heart was about to burst out of my chest; my entire body shook in complete panic. As Torsten put the tip of his cock against my pussy, I screamed; I clenched around it in horror. "Please, Daddy, it's wrong, please, don't, please," I wailed, tears streaming down my face.

"Scream all you like," Torsten growled, as hard as rock as he began to push his cock inside of me, shaking himself from his frenzy, from his arousal. He roared as he plunged himself inside of me, matching each one of my cries with one of his own, brutal, ramming in so fast he truly hurt me. The blows to my womb made me curl up, stiffen in pain as if this was a true deflowering; I went quiet and Torsten noticed that, slowing down a little. And it was at that that my heart broke; that despite the depth of the play, he showed a little mercy for me, perhaps wanting to prove himself a better man than Smythe. So he masked his pause as the need to adjust his position, spreading his legs further, curling against my back.

"Does it hurt, then?" he crooned, but I could hear the care in his voice, in the fatherly firmness of it. 

"Yes, Daddy," I said, panting a little as briefly, he pulled completely out of me. But for a few seconds, he allowed me to breathe, then slid halfway back inside of me, not yet touching my womb. I let out a series of pained sobs, but to Torsten they were thank yous, and to me they were a letting go. As he began to fuck me again, I continued to sob, the pain leaving my body through my mouth, my awareness once again dissolving, giving way to the child who adored her father. I loved him, I loved him, I loved him.

He murmured softly, speeding up a little, now. "Do you like Daddy's cock in your pussy, my child?"

"No," I snapped, even as I got wetter and wetter, slicking up his cock, allowing him to slide in and out of me with ease, now. 

"Liar," he crooned in my ear and slapped me on both of my cheeks. And oh, the groan he let out as I clenched around him; the way Smythe himself gasped as he saw how we both shook. "This is what you've always wanted, isn't it?" Torsten said. "Daddy's cock in your fat little pussy. That's why you kept your pussy from boys, isn't it? You were saving it for me, saving it for your old Dad," he panted as he began to thrust into me harder.

I only wailed in response, hoping Smythe would take that noise for one of shame. But shame was now leaving me just as the pain was, pooling out on the table in the form of my ululations, my little child's pussy wet and hot around my father's violating cock. I was so aroused I did not even need to touch my pussy to reach orgasm, now: I pressed my thighs tight together and Torsten noticed this, pacing his thrusts, angling his hips so that he hit me as deep as he could, groaning deep in his throat as my pussy clenched around him.

"Fuck," he cried out, "fuck!" as I swallowed him whole, and then I no longer heard him as I was coming, coming violently around his cock, drowning his noises with my cries. 

"Daddy," I shouted against the table as he kept on fucking me, shrieking, screaming from my orgasm like a maniac, my cries snapped into pieces by the brutality of his thrusts. 

Shouting himself, he pulled out fast, and I knew he did so in order not to follow me into orgasm. "Fuck," he snarled again, smacking both my buttocks. He spat on my ass, scooped up wetness from my pussy and shoved several fingers up my ass, making me howl in pain. "I'm going to fuck you in the ass," he panted, "fuck you right here, where it really hurts."

"No, Daddy, please, no, no--"

"Shut your mouth," he spat. "I don't think you understand. This little hole belongs to me," he growled, twisting his fingers, lifting my hips with them. "And I will fuck it as I please. Fuck it every night if I want to. And you'll keep it open for me, clean and shitless for me, slicked up for me. For me, and for my _friends._ "

 _Friends, friends,_ the trigger word Torsten had talked about. Even if I couldn't see him, I could feel something in Smythe _snap._ I could hear his chair creaking again, could hear him take a few steps so that he was either behind Torsten or beside him. Even through the pleasure-pain of being pulled open, I managed to turn my head just enough to see his green velvet jacket sliding off his shoulders; I was drunk from joy as I saw his velvet-clad knees hit the floor.

Yet Torsten ignored him and curled his fingers again, again until I was dizzy, until I nearly fell off the table. "You are to obey your father in everything. Do you understand?"

"Yes," I cried out, this time in delight. "Yes!"

And then Torsten was squatting over me, squatting over the table, pressing his cock into my ass. I howled, my teeth scraping the table as he penetrated me. I prised my eyes open just enough to see Smythe: he was now kneeling behind us, staring at us, his hands on my thighs. I couldn't see his face, so it must have been only inches from my pussy, from Torsten's ass, from his balls. Perhaps he was even licking Torsten, and as if the very thought had not been enough, Torsten brought his hand to my pussy and rubbed, forced me into another orgasm. Always so fast, anal orgasms, always so hard to hold back, and now I didn't, too ecstatic to do so: I screamed and felt myself gushing, heard Smythe _choking_. Oh, God, oh, God, I was coming all over his face, spraying his face, more ejaculate pushed out of me at each one of Torsten's thrusts. I was wailing, my ass and pussy now so open they made slurping, farting sounds as Torsten kept pounding into me. 

When Torsten slowed down, I thought he, too, had come; but as he untied my hands and turned me onto my back I saw that I was wrong. He gave me a kiss, a wet, sloppy kiss, his smile that of a Praetorian guard about to stab his emperor. "Stay there."

When he moved aside, I saw Smythe was on the floor on all fours, staring at me, transfixed: his face was dripping from my fluids, his pupils so wide they had turned his eyes entirely black. His face was red from shame, from dishonour, from his subjugation to lust; he had pulled his trousers down to his knees and was now masturbating furiously, unable to stop, as if it was an itch he had to scratch. His eyes were wide from horror; he was no longer in control of his own body, Torsten in charge of its every movement. 

"That's it, Smythe," Torsten said, ruffling Smythe's gray mane. "I've only left you your tongue and your eyes. Everything else is mine to command," he said pleasantly. "How does it feel to be helpless, for once?" Without waiting for an answer, he pushed Smythe's face into my pussy. "Now, lick."

The noise Smythe made was horrible, animal; I shivered in horror as he began to lap at my pussy clumsily, messily, clearly never having condescended himself to perform such an act before. And behind him, Torsten, pouring a long, long string of glycerine onto his cock, trembling like a hound from the effort to hold still. Finally, he set the glycerine down and noticed Smythe's cane. He smirked and picked it up and as he saw me blanch, he lifted his finger to his lips. I knew what he was going to do with it, knew it--and the scream Smythe made into my pussy as the silver greyhound entered his ass was miserable, like that of a man dying. 

"Don't act so shocked," Torsten crooned as he fucked Smythe's ass with the cane. "This was what you were going to do to my daughter's business, weren't you?" he said pityingly. "Screw her over and think you'd get away with it?" He pulled the now-dirty cane out and sneered at it, then tossed it aside. "Well, then. We just thought it was about time we showed you who is screwing whom, here," he said brightly and started to push his cock inside Smythe's ass.

Again, Smythe screamed, his panic reaching its peak: the veins on his temples swelled, his entire face puffed and red, his eyes bulging out of his skull. He looked like some Tibetan demon, and I should have been horrified, but then I thought of what he had wanted to do to me, what he had done to others before me. Snarling as brutally as Torsten himself, I sunk my hand into Smythe's hair and fucked his face, fucked it, forced him to lick my pussy and my asshole, rubbed them all over his face until it was shining. I fucked his face as Torsten fucked his ass, taking each and every one of his screams inside my pussy, and never had I felt as satanic in my life. As Torsten looked down at me with pride, his eyes zenith-pale, wide, I rushed into the first true sadistic orgasm of my life. I never took my eyes off Torsten, not even as I shook so violently tufts of Smythe's hair came off in my hands. At that moment, we two Barrings merged in our evil, one coming inside their enemy's ass, one in his mouth, us impaling him upon the twin wraths of our sexes, and I fancied our fluids were hot, burning, scorching him from the inside, like lead poured down a traitor's throat.

Torsten cried out, shaking in his release, clawing at Smythe's pale buttocks as he emptied himself inside of him. Torsten leaned over me and offered me his mouth; I pulled off Smythe and kept kissing Torsten through the rest of his orgasm, drinking victory from his lips. 

Smythe collapsed at our feet, trembling, his eyes rolling, his mouth foaming, his hand still jerking on his cock, now covered in his own ejaculate. He panted, his face still red, his veins still swollen, and I wondered if he would have a heart attack. Strangely, it seemed natural to me that I was not repulsed by the idea: all we would've had to worry about was the disposal of the body. 

Yet this was to be a warning for him, and as such, I was sure it would suffice. I slipped a sedative into Smythe's mouth and forced it down with water as Torsten tucked him back into his clothes. We got dressed, tidied ourselves up and cleaned the living room so that no one could have known what had taken place. We seated Smythe in the chair in the hallway, as if he had just been putting his shoes on, as if he had just been about to leave. 

"Now, listen, _friend,_ " Torsten said to Smythe, in the calm tone of voice he had used upon me earlier. "Your body belongs to you once more. You are to take a taxi home, and will not remember who you are until you are at your own front door. You will not remember the details of what happened here, but will remember not to give the Barrings trouble ever again. Each time you even think of meddling with our affairs, you will feel this same pain in your guts, this same humiliation, and will cease to think of us at once. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Smythe mumbled, wiping his mouth, as if he had just tasted something metallic. 

Torsten handed him his cane and patted him on the back. "Good. Off you go, then."

As we watched Smythe through the window, staggering into a taxi and driving off, we looked at each other and could not help but burst into laughter. And it wasn't a laughter of joy, either, but purely hysterical, chaotic, damned--we both knew this, yet couldn't stop laughing at the madness of it all. If Smythe were ever to find out, he would kill us, so we laughed as if we were going to the scaffold; I was still laughing as we collapsed upon the sofa and Torsten poured us large glasses of whisky.

He raised his glass in a toast. "To Salome and Herod."

I shook my head; history now knew of people far more satanic. "To Torsten and Laura Erika Barring." 

He kissed me and laughed into my mouth. "Skål."


	9. Chapter 9

For the next few weeks, we were drunk on our own evil. Was this what successful murderers felt? That they could get away with anything? Because that's what we now felt, and set out to test our limits--if Torsten had had a taste for public sex before, it was now refined, elaborated into a symphony of transgressions. 

For my part, I _made_ myself into sex. No matter what the event, I would saunter in like Mae West herself, wearing the most flamboyant dresses, some of which Birgitte had tested for shock value in Los Angeles and sent to me. It would not do to appear at more than one party in the same dress, and she didn't want such works of art to go to waste. So the finest of hotels and restaurants--and their prestigious patrons--saw plenty of me, literally, and I loved every minute of it. A daring costume was always sexier than complete nudity and I knew it; some of my dresses were so sheer they were little more than fig leaves. And Eve had brought down all of humanity, hadn't she?

For the Swedish-American charity ball, I chose a dress of white satin, perfectly plain and simple at the front, but so open at the back it exposed the dimples at the small of my back. Torsten, with his fetish for all things ass, had been so stirred by it he'd crooned his appreciation before we'd even left for the party.

"One inch lower and one could see the cleft," he hissed into my ear in the taxi, caressing the edge of the dress at my lower back. "Two inches lower and one could sodomise you." 

"You never know," I said, purring against his cheek. " _If_ they bring a fierce enough jazz band and _if_ I get carried away by the dancing, the dress might even slip a little."

The noise Torsten made through his nose was hideous, exquisite. "And if it doesn't, I'm taking you out of here to the smallest, rattiest Negro café so you can dance to your heart's content."

"I'd much prefer that," I mumbled as we stepped out and had to paint fake society smiles on our faces. "At least on that side of town, they're more honest."

For it was true that part of the reason we behaved the way we did was our mutual scorn and hatred of high society, particularly in America, the land of artifice. Even the normally modest and honest Swedes we met at events like these had become more fake, more shallow, abandoning true refinement for the sake of big cars, big apartments, big dentist-crafted smiles. At times, we felt like we were the last two of a dying race, the last of the true depraved European aristocrats. American depravity focused on show, on vulgarity, on shoving things into your face, whereas we both preferred a deeper, darker sensualism. We were fascinated by the psychology of seduction, of sadism and masochism--the Gothic Romanticism and spirituality of it, the yearning to be dissolved by pleasure-pain. 

Even when we were at our filthiest, there remained an intellectual aspect to our practices--why, just the other day I had been flicking through one of Torsten's copies of Crowley and the old devil's discussions on breaking through taboos. "And to think that in order to reach realisation, the initiate is to consume the excrement from a biscuit--Torsten, doesn't that biscuit strike you as... softening it too much, disguising it too much?" 

"Somehow less _pure_ an experience?" he said. "If you can call it that," he laughed.

"No, that's exactly what I mean." 

Wasn't what we were now experimenting with, now heading towards, much purer a shock? No biscuits, just honest sodomy, all our secretions consumed off the genitals, the sources of life itself? Purity, absolutism even in filth? I told him this, and he agreed. We were more than just initiates; we were adepts, going beyond everything that could possibly shock us and finding serenity on the other side. This never ceased to fascinate me, never ceased to turn my mind inside out. The old Beast had been right; there was nothing like breaking taboos to expand one's mind, one's consciousness, to find enlightenment where fools only saw depravity for depravity's sake. And that was exactly why we had been repeatedly disappointed by the occult circles in both Sweden and in New York: for so many, rituals pagan and diabolical were just an excuse for parties, for orgies, nothing you couldn't find in brothels. Well, at least the brothels didn't _pretend_ to be deep or mystical.

So we continued to live out our own bacchanalia, to explore our own erotic abyss without the assistance of others, because they only stood in our way. And at parties such as these, we were both radiant with that sexual vitality, the libidinous life force, and we wielded it with ever-growing skill. Whereas other women sat and danced with locked, cramped hips, never having experienced a single orgasm in their lives, I swung and gyrated mine shamelessly. With equal sensuality, Torsten rocked his hips in turn, unlike the stiff and cold heterosexual--or self-denying--men who had never been fucked, had never thrown themselves fully into the experience of both sexes. 

And at our table, when there were fewer others sitting at it, all of them engaged in mindless chatter with each other, Torsten slipped his hand inside of my dress. The heat of his hand, the skill of it, the knowledge of it as it traced my vertebrae, as it slid down my tailbone--my pussy, my womb were jolted with heat, a heat that wanted to erupt from my mouth a moan, but I bit down on it at the last minute. That's exactly what he wanted, wanted to see how well I could control myself, how obedient I could be. Even as he reached lower and dipped a finger into my ass, pushing it past the muscle, tugging at it at an event with three hundred people in attendance, with only the back of my chair shielding the act. I covered my mouth with a napkin so I could bite it, pant into it as he fucked my ass with his finger, a cigarette in his other hand, looking casual.

"Oh, I'm so sorry." He knocked my knife off the table, and on this cue, I too leaned down, slipped underneath the tablecloth with him. Even in the shadows, I could see him smirking, and in the blue of his eyes, the Devil. He took his finger from my ass and held it out to me, his mouth open, his lips and teeth gleaming with saliva. I could not see if his finger was clean and that was _it_ , that was the point exactly. I closed my mouth around his finger and sucked, something dissolving on my tongue; I tasted but sweetness. 

What I felt in that moment of transgression was stronger than orgasm; terrible, sublime. When I sat up I felt dizzy, the liquid fire in my veins burning up the oxygen in my lungs. I smacked my mouth, choosing a glass of mineral water instead of wine so as not to drown out the taste, to intermingle other sweetnesses with that of my own. With the water, the sweetness sluiced down my throat and pooled in my belly, and I knew I wanted more, had to have more. I had, in fact, cleaned myself that night, and cursed myself for having done so. Now I picked up my wine glass once more and poured its warmth into myself, into my guts, mixing with the heat rising from my pussy and ass, both still pulsing, needing to be taken. It was one of those premenstrual days when I wanted nothing but sex, all morning, day and night, and for once, Torsten could keep up with me, his virility fortified by his conquest of Smythe. I wanted to fuck and he saw it in my eyes; he, too, was stirred more than usual, shifting in his seat in the way that indicated he was hiding the beginnings of an erection.

"Let's go," I whispered in his ear.

He shook his head and glanced around himself. "We can't, yet. Hemming wants to introduce some couple to us."

I rolled my eyes and swore under my breath. I could not care less, and neither could Torsten. If I had to stay still for much longer, I was afraid I might just snap, slide to my knees and suck his cock into my mouth in front of everyone. 

But it was then that Hemming arrived. He was an old, kindly man who reminded me of my grandfather, and I didn't have the heart to disappoint him. He had been the one responsible for getting us in contact with many influential people, and while the couple he now led towards our table looked plain--

"Ah, here you are. Here's Mr. Stirling, freshly arrived from Britain, and his wife--"

My eyes flew wide.

"We've met," Anita said as she shook my hand, uneasy, yet curious, amused. 

But it was Torsten who now looked astounded as he shook the handsome young man's hand. "The utter, statistical improbability--"

"It's nice to meet you again, too, Mr. Barring. Small world, isn't it?"

Torsten shook his head and laughed. "This is my daughter, Laura--Mr. Stirling--"

"Robbie, please," the young man said, a curl of his blond hair escaping onto his forehead as he bowed to me. 

Torsten looked from him to me, then to Anita. "And you know this lady, too?"

"Anita Cortés," I said, and saw Hemming leaving with a bemused expression on his face. "It is indeed a small world," I murmured, "miniscule."

"I've heard so much about you," Anita said to Torsten, flushing a little as he kissed her hand. I knew Torsten must have used his special kiss, one that involved his tongue, exactly because he knew it would unsettle a woman like Anita.

"Well, well," Torsten leered; "I see my reputation precedes me." He turned to Robbie. "But Robbie, you old devil! You never told me you had such a beautiful wife."

Robbie's cheeks flushed; he looked so much like a little boy, then, and I knew exactly what Torsten had seen in him. "We only married at New Year's. People still mistake us for honeymooners," he said shyly and took Anita's hand.

Torsten raised his eyebrow and looked Anita up and down lasciviously, insulting Robbie as he did so, obviously confident that the young man wouldn't dare say anything. "No wonder you two look so radiant," he said. "Learning the arts of love together..." he purred, and as he turned to light his cigarette, I was not so sure Robbie _wasn't_ going to punch him. 

I cleared my throat and gestured towards our table. "Would you like to sit with us?" 

Awkwardly, they took their seats, too polite to refuse. A few bottles of champagne later, their tension had eased: finally, I saw that sensuality I had first sensed in Anita come to the fore, even if it was still so very coiled, so very locked up inside of her. I looked at Torsten and wondered the same thing he must have been wondering: if we should seduce the two together, if this was the prelude to an orgy. Yet, remembering the fiasco that spring, I felt little more than pity towards Anita, so I directed the conversation towards work. "Any new interesting patients?"

"Oh, it's always the same issues," she said, then clasped Robbie's hand. "If it weren't for Robbie here, I would have gone insane myself, a long time ago. I've been branching out into hypnotherapy just so I wouldn't have to listen to everyone's mommy stories day in, day out."

"Well, now, that's very interesting," Torsten said. "I'm a bit of a hypnotist myself," he said, the private joke making him grin widely.

"Do you have a practice?" Anita asked.

"No, no, no, no," Torsten said, weaving his hand through his cloud of cigarette smoke. "Everyone should have a hobby, something they only do out of _love,_ " he purred. "And hypnotism is so much like seduction, isn't it?" he said, pouring himself another glass. Quickly, he flicked his eyes, fluttered his lashes at Robbie, but I noticed; saw the way Robbie's hands tightened on his napkin.

Robbie laughed nervously. "And you wouldn't need the money, either," he said. Oh, that was a clumsy thing to say; I could see Anita frowning as he inadvertently implied they were poor. And I was sure they were: Robbie's tuxedo sat so poorly upon him it looked rented; Anita's dress was worn at the seams. In fact, now, Robbie shifted a little; I wondered if she was kicking him underneath the table.

Anita twisted her face into a chirpy smile. "I have acquired a client who pays very well; a multimillionaire, as a matter of fact," she said. "Who knows; perhaps in a while we can retire on the profits."

Torsten nodded sagely. "The rich are often the most neurotic."

"And the most perverse," I said casually, sipping from my wine. "Tell me, is it true what they say about the British?" I threw the question at both of them, seeing if I could disconcert them further. "That they are obsessed with sodomy and the lash?"

At the mention of sodomy, Robbie choked. "I--I wouldn't know much about that," he stammered. "That's more of an English thing. Naval tradition and all that."

"The millionaire is an Englishman," Anita said, downing her wine, bolder, now. "Full of control issues. I wouldn't be surprised if he did keep a birching horse somewhere."

Torsten and I exchanged looks. "What's his name?" I asked.

Anita poured herself another glass of wine and looked at me, mock-stern. "You know perfectly well that's confidential."

"Shame," I said with exaggerated flirtatiousness. "I like a good pervert; I would have loved to have met him."

Yet Torsten was not in the mood for flippancy. "It's dangerous to go rummaging around a man's head, is it not?" he asked, masking his nervousness under a laugh. "You never know what you'll find," he said, affecting charm, but I saw his hand was shaking a little, scattering cigarette ash on his plate.

"Quite," Anita said, now halfway into her fourth glass. "But I have my methods, for sadists and masochists alike."

At that, Robbie got up so fast his chair creaked loudly. "Come on. It's time we went home."

Anita glared at him, but said nothing. For a moment I did wonder if she was an alcoholic; if Robbie's blundering had just given her away, implying she'd had too much to drink and that this wasn't the first time.

"It's late," I said, looking at my wristwatch. "We'd better get going as well." 

And at that, Torsten launched himself off the table like a cheetah, bade quick goodbyes to the Stirlings and dragged me towards the coat room. 

"If she--if Smythe finds out, we're _dead,_ " he hissed in my ear.

"I know. And what are we going to do about it?"

"We'll have to wait and see," he said, gritting his teeth at the very idea. "To make sure it really is him."

We sat quietly all throughout the taxi ride home; the driver must've thought we'd been quarreling. Even the alcohol had not completely suppressed the panic that now flowered inside of me. 

By the time we got home, we copulated like two people condemned; frenzied, animal. He whipped me, I whipped him; he pressed me face down into the sheets and fucked me, clutching me tight against himself, as if to stave off death. The sobs he made were terrible; even after his orgasm, he was distraught by fear. "Please, please," he begged me and I fucked him with my hand, but could never get it inside of him completely; I was sure I could have done it otherwise, but he was so tense I could only insert my hand up to my palm. Yet I served him, milked him, loved him until he was too wrung out from his orgasms to think. We fell into each other's arms, yet even as he spooned me, fast asleep, the moonlight kept me awake long into the night. 

***

July: from elation into chaos. Torsten plunged himself into his occultism, casting spells, performing rituals to bind enemies, to protect himself from any malicious intent. He even studied astrological charts, sacrificed wine and drugs and sperm to long-forgotten demons in his cowardice, in his terror.

Yet I was not going to sit there and wait for some supernatural being to intervene. Were we not our own gods, I asked him? Smythe was not going to get in the way of our destiny, I told him, and that was that. I left Torsten to his incantations and began to spend my days at the office again, even hired a private detective to find out whether Smythe was planning another takeover, or if he was after us in any other way. However, I still suspected that his revenge would come in the form of destroying our business, our fortune; ordinary humiliations weren't his style. Even if he wanted to murder us--and I would have, had someone done to me what we had done to him--he would go after Barring Industries first. 

What I found curious was that Acheron had left Smythe's service. What was that a sign of? I invited him to a bar with us, one that afforded us enough privacy, yet it was hard for him to keep his voice down. He was furious with Smythe, absolutely furious. No longer a henchman, then. He said Smythe, who had been his landlord, had refused to extend the lease on his house, leaving him practically homeless. He was now sleeping on people's floors--he, who had grown up on an estate!--and said he would leave for England as soon as the war was over. 

I set my private detective after Acheron to find out if this was true, and it was. He saw Acheron coming out of houseboats, out of houses of ill repute, out of cars--he was being put up by friends and clients, now little more than a street whore. After a few weeks of this, I felt pity for him and bought him a small apartment a few blocks away from us. But I told him there was a price: he was to tell us all he knew about Smythe.

"Oh, I _will,_ " he huffed, his voice full of hatred as he poured himself another glass of our whisky. "Anything you want to know, _milady,_ and some things you'll wish you'd never heard."

He was right--what he told us about Smythe and the children made Gilles de Rais look like a sweetheart. About five minutes in, I raised my hand to stop him and reached for the whisky myself. "Please. I get the picture."

"I apologise. But as you can see, there was a reason why I preferred to work downstairs, with adults. Even then, he always complained that I was too much of a gentleman with the clients. But he didn't know of anyone else who could do what I do with these," he said and lifted his hands, "so he kept me."

"Was it just sex?" Torsten said. "I know you said he wanted you to manipulate their loyalties through sex, but did it go further? Were you extracting information out of them?"

"Sometimes," Acheron said. "A bit of blackmail, a bit of squeezing here and there." 

A log snapped in the fire; none of us said anything for a long while. It was strange to see Acheron like that, such an imposing man in such a dusty suit, his face swollen from sleepless nights and alcohol. If it weren't for his accent and for his manners, you could have mistaken him for the lowest of the low, the grunt of a gangster. And I hated Smythe even more, then--not because I cared that much for Acheron, but simply on principle; that he could waste a talent, a fellow perverse aristocrat like that. Or was I a hypocrite? Had I been in Smythe's place, wouldn't I have done the same? I had used and squeezed people before, then cast them out once I'd wrung them dry. Was it because this was the future Torsten and I were now facing that made me roil in such hatred, such disgust? 

Whatever it was, only my hatred mattered. "What does he know about us?" I asked Acheron, quietly.

"Your rules--no vaginal sex, no pissing. Your exclusive fetishes," he smirked, "vaginal sex and pissing. And that you are father and daughter." So Acheron, too, had known. Well; that was hardly a surprise. 

Torsten smacked his lips and put his drink down. "Is there anything he could use against us that'd _actually_ stand up in court? Apart from rumours?"

"That would depend on the judges, wouldn't it?" Acheron said, leaning back in his chair. "He has enough money to bribe every single one, and appoint the exact ones he wants as well."

I rolled my eyes. _"Shit."_ Yet, funnily enough, neither man scolded me for being unladylike.

"Why are you so obsessed with him now, anyway?" Acheron frowned. "He does this to everyone. You aren't the first people he's got a file on. He's been doing it for the better part of a decade. What makes you think he's after you two in particular?"

Torsten and I exchanged glances. Neither of us was willing to tell Acheron why; therefore, I only gave him half the truth. "He wants to swallow up our business."

Acheron shrugged. "Happens once a week. It's what he does."

"But not to the Barrings," Torsten barked. "Tell us what you've got on him, any evidence we can use against him. I promise to double what he was paying you." 

Acheron burst into laughter. "Bold words."

"Would you rather starve?" I snapped. "Keep selling yourself to the highest bidder?"

"Oh-ho-ho, I will, I will, if the price is right. What are you offering?"

***

Acheron told us everything he knew; yet, now that he was removed from Smythe's service, he had to ask his clients--he still received the precious few he enjoyed fucking. And he had enough connections among Smythe's staff so that he could give us details of Smythe's comings and goings. By now, it was nearly August, yet we had heard nothing. I'd gone to see Anita, but she'd remained tight-lipped about Smythe; if she had indeed broken through the amnesia Torsten had given Smythe, wouldn't Smythe have destroyed us already? Or was he simply biding his time? 

At the start of August, Birgitte returned. She was as chirpy as ever, made even chirpier by the Californian sun. The people there had made her even more shallow and vain, but right now, I found her a welcome distraction. The sex was amazing, too: just as I had promised, I taught her how to take my hand, making her come over and over as Torsten, sometimes even Acheron, watched.

Acheron was in our pay, and had decided to throw sexual services into the bargain--I never quite knew where he drew the line between prostitution and pleasure. However, the moment he had seen Birgitte, he had been so taken by her that he probably would have paid _her_ for the privilege of fucking her. Birgitte more than liked him, declared him her type exactly, and soon they were madly, passionately in love. The tender way he looked at her when he fucked her astounded me: gone was the cruel torturer and the gentleman started to come to the fore. Even as he drove himself into her body as hard as he could, he did it with such precision and care it made me tremble in envy. But they were still glad to share; we drowned countless nights in champagne, drugs and fucking. 

August became a series of erotic miniatures in my mind, vivid images forever burned into my memory. Of Torsten and Acheron pounding into us from behind, then changing places, using us until they were sated. The ecstasy I felt sucking the combined tastes of Birgitte and myself off Torsten's, Acheron's cocks. Torsten and Acheron lying on the bed with their legs up, Birgitte and I licking their asses in worship. Birgitte and I whipped into ecstasies, sobbing around the men's cocks in our mouths, pussies, asses, all of us a pile of writhing flesh upon the bed, all of us tasting each other, drunk on pussy juice and sperm. 

Yet, neither Acheron or I could ever get our hands inside of Torsten fully; around the same time, I realised I was no longer capable of ejaculating. Acheron and Birgitte noticed this, but said nothing: they were too busy enjoying themselves, Birgitte spraying Acheron's beard as he sunk his fist inside of her ass for the first time. Oh, Torsten and I could still orgasm, of course, but this partial frigidity filled me with--pardon the pun--impotent rage. Smythe, whether he remembered his rape or not, had blocked the deepest reaches of pleasure from us with his very existence. For that, I hated him, hated him even as I plunged myself down on Torsten and Acheron's cocks, fucking so hard to forget, but I never could.

But I needed to forget, absolutely needed to. That's why, one day, I suggested a more complex game for Torsten, Acheron and myself to play. Birgitte was out of town for the weekend and I needed something intense, with myself as the only woman in the scene. Again, I wanted the two men fucking me, but this time, I begged for Torsten to hypnotise me, to purify me, to render me into a state where I would question nothing, worry about nothing. So that this time, I would be able to enjoy everything I was given, orgasm violently no matter what was being done to me. And he knew, just as I knew, that implicit in that request was the option of coprophilia, finally; to my surprise, he vetoed it. 

"I mean what I say," he said, after he'd told me he was a little weary of group sex himself. "The day we cross that line, I don't want anyone else to be present. I don't care if he knows what we do, but those acts are to be between you and me only. Have a wash, just as you normally do."

"But, Daddy," I said, burying my head in his chest, completely sunk into the little girl's role now. "It's not that I don't want you separately. I just want it to be hard, and two men are better for that, isn't that right?"

He stroked my cheek. "Then I shall take you dirty some other time. I promise."

"You've promised me that all year," I pouted. 

"Very well, then," he chuckled. "Let's set a date. After Birgitte's party."

"Which one?" There was hardly a week when Birgitte didn't throw one.

"The last week of September. There, does that satisfy you?" he said, squeezing my ass through my skirt.

"Yes, Daddy," I murmured against his lips. "But tomorrow, you will hypnotise me, won't you? Just make me forget him. Make me forget _everything._ Please."

"Anything for my little girl," he said and kissed my forehead.

***

On Saturday evening, Acheron came over. He was in a dark mood; yet after a sniff of cocaine and a stiff drink, he finally started to unwind. "The bathroom tonight, I think," he said as he stripped down to his waist. "But first, let me see you relax," he said and pulled me into a kiss. 

Torsten arranged us so that while Acheron lay on the sofa, I lay in his lap, my bare back against his hairy chest. I was completely naked, Acheron still in his trousers, Torsten in his finest--and fatherliest--pinstriped suit. Slowly, with his hands and his words and his kisses, Torsten pulled me under, Acheron petting my hair, caressing my breasts all the while. Acheron had never seen me in my full trance state, my childhood state; this added to my thrill. This was a gift of intimacy we were sharing with Acheron, someone who could truly appreciate it, instead of Smythe, who had only thought to abuse it. 

I told them this, but Torsten told me Smythe did not exist, and after he repeated this statement thrice, Smythe truly did cease to exist. I tried to look for him in my mind and found but a blank space--I saw mauve gloves, a jaunty hat, a silver-topped cane--but no face, no name, no memory of the man himself. I did not know who he was or whether I loved him or hated him; my mind was empty of him.

"You are to enjoy every moment, my child," Torsten said, as if from very far away. "Everything that is given to you tonight, you will take pleasure in. Even if it is something that you might be scared of, even if it's something that might give you pain. You will orgasm when you are told to do so, with your entire body, with your entire soul. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Daddy." I nodded with the eagerness of my twelve-year old self, curling my toes. "I love you, Daddy," I said with equal eagerness and honesty, because that was all I could feel in that moment: pleasure, and how much I loved him, adored him for showering me with gifts like these.

He slid between my legs and kissed my pussy, then; it was a kiss reverent, sweet and long. When he lifted his face he was smiling warmly, his mouth gleaming from me. "There's a good girl. Now, are you ready?"

"Yes," I said. 

"Good. Uncle Acheron said he wants to take you first, and suggested I should watch from the mirror room. Daddy quite likes that idea. Do you?"

I bit my lip and smiled, caressing his groin with my foot. "Only if you join in eventually, Daddy," I said.

"I promise," he said with a pussy-sweet kiss. 

Once we were in the bathroom, Acheron pulled me further into my trance with the ritual of the enema, filling my guts with warm milk, washing me over and over. Daddy had taught him well, knowing exactly how many rinses it took to render me soft, pliant; how to stroke my pussy as I expelled the milk. And on the other side of the mirror, I imagined my Daddy with his hand on his cock, arousing himself to the point where he would have no choice but to pounce me, deliberately building up his desire so he could unleash its full violence upon me. The thought in and of itself made my pussy slippery under Acheron's hands--again, he wore his gloves--and made my ass open as he filled it with dollop after dollop of his favourite grease. The same grease he used for boys, he said; he saved it for special customers.

"And if this isn't the prettiest little ass I have ever seen on a twelve-year old," he crooned. "You do like to tease older men, don't you?" he asked and smacked my ass. "To drive them wild with your tits and your ass, so they simply _have_ to fuck you?"

"Yes," I moaned, drunk from his words, from his caresses. I was now standing in the bathtub, he on the floor behind me, one hand stroking my pussy, another's fingers twisting in my ass. He was speaking the truth, the truth about Laura at all ages. I loved teasing men, teasing women; I loved to walk around in naughty dresses and naughty heels, pushing my ass and my tits out, taunting them with what belonged only to my Daddy and his friends. 

"Hmm?" Acheron took his hand off my pussy and painted my lips with my juices. "Would you say you were a little _slut,_ Laura?"

"Yes, sir," I said, choking on his fingers as he pushed them into my throat, now fucking me from both ends of my spine, forcing me into convulsions. Another act my Daddy had taught him, shared with him; stars sparked in my eyes as he made me cough on his hand, drool on it, hooking his fingers in my ass as it spasmed and spasmed. Soon, my mouth and my pussy were dripping, dribbling; when he allowed me breath and let my head loll down, I saw I was dangling in strings of spit and sweetness from both ends, all over my breasts, my thighs. _Like jewelry,_ I thought dizzily, my head spinning from the sudden onrush of oxygen, _he's making me pretty for Daddy._ I sobbed, gurgled, coughed; he just scooped up the mess and used it to slick his hand up further.

He returned his hand to my ass, sliding it in easily up to his palm; by now, my pussy was burning, aching as if inflamed. It felt like an illness, a terrible disease I wanted to be healed from, that ache. And only friction could heal it, the sweet friction of fingers, cocks. "Please," I begged, "please fuck me."

"Oh, no. Not just yet. But you could come for me, my child. Would you do that for me?" He stepped aside a little so that Daddy most certainly had an unimpeded view of my behind. Acheron began to stroke my pussy again, twisting his hand in and out of my ass. "Will you come for your Daddy and me?" 

"Yes--" I dragged in heavy lungfuls of air, holding it, holding it--

"Come," Acheron crooned, and before he'd even let the entirety of the word leave his lips, I was there. I felt weightless, the orgasm simple but still so intense I would have fallen over had his hands not held me up. Oh, it was wonderful; I was not gushing yet, but that didn't matter. The release was perfect, a tension that had lasted for days now finally being loosened from me.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you," I sobbed as I shook, warm pulses rippling through each one of my muscles. I lay my face against the coolness of the wall and Acheron held me through the very last waves of my orgasm, letting me drool it out, drip it out, moan it out until I was done. "Thank you," I gasped once more as he lifted my head up by the hair and kissed me.

"My pleasure," Acheron murmured as he tied my hands behind my back with a length of rope. "Now. I've got a little surprise for you, if you would care to see it. Do you like surprises, my child?"

"I love surprises," I laughed, happy, light.

He smiled against my mouth. "Then, stay there for a while. I will be back in a minute."

"Yes, sir," I said and caught my reflection in the mirror: I was flushed, a mess, but so happy, my eyes glowing with such joy I had not known its like in a long while. And on the other side of the mirror, my Daddy; I fancied he was looking at me with similar happiness and love.

Yet it was then that I heard, very distinctly, the sound of a key being turned in a lock. A thump, another--was Acheron getting something from one of the unwieldy, huge closets in the back room? Another thump, and then I heard shouting--it was Daddy. I could not make out what he was shouting, but he was distraught, panicking, the thumping now more frantic. 

My heart started to beat faster, reaching a gallop within seconds. "Daddy?" With great difficulty, I tried to turn towards the door. "Daddy?" I cried, louder. "Acheron?"

"You just stay right where you are, my dear."

My heart stopped; my lungs stilled. It was another man, a man I did not recognise, a short man with a jaunty hat and mauve gloves, twisting a silver-topped cane in his hands.

"Save your breath," he said, waving his hand dramatically, swanning into the bathroom as if it were a salon. "Yes, I remember everything; yes, it was Anita, yes, Acheron let me in." He stepped closer, his small eyes but cold, black holes sucking me under, his breath sickly-sweet against my neck. "And yes, my dear, now you are going to _pay._ "

"Pay for what?" I did not understand. I had never seen this man in my life and he terrified me, implying I had wronged him somehow. Yet I was sure Daddy and Acheron had meant for him to be here, had meant for him to say those words. Briefly, Daddy's pounding stopped and now I could hear him screaming again; the thumps grew louder and I was sure he was trying to break the door, to force his way out. Was it another part of the play? Like the time he had wanted to be raped by gangsters? Because the two men I now saw in the doorway looked like gangsters. They exchanged looks, then turned to the man with the cane, who seemed to be their boss.

"Make sure he stays there," the man said. 

I remained in place, frozen. Even if my heart was pounding, even if something in me knew I should run, I stayed still. I had been told to stay still, had been told to love whatever I was given, whoever gave it. But my mind rebelled, screamed as this strange man hooked his cane around my neck and pulled me close. He was out of place, but I did not know where to place him. I was but chaos inside, knowing I should know, like on those days when I was struggling with the crossword and only needed a few letters to complete a word I knew existed somewhere in the back of my mind. 

"All sorted out, Mr. Smythe," Acheron said as he returned, then turned to me. "I'm so very sorry, my dear," he grinned, that awful, awful shark's grin that chilled me to the bone. "But he pays me better."

"What's going on?" I asked. This was a game, an elaborate game, just as Acheron and Daddy had said it would be, but I was not sure of the rules any more. Daddy was screaming again; a terrible noise that turned my stomach but which seemed to please Smythe. Perhaps he was one of my Daddy's men; perhaps this was one of those torture games Daddy enjoyed from time to time. Daddy pounded on his door once more, and now I could tell his voice had turned into a sob. Despite knowing of his tendencies, I couldn't help but worry. "Please. Tell me what's going on."

"She is in a trance, you see," Acheron said to Smythe, wiping his hands. "That's why she isn't moving. I wouldn't have even needed to tie her up, but she looks prettier all trussed up, doesn't she?"

"She does indeed," Smythe said, pulling my head down so that we were at kissing distance. He smelled of exotic flowers, of musk; he had been eating something fruity, sweet. His right eye was a little crooked, twisting further as he regarded me, his nostrils flaring as he smelled me. "My, but I can smell your pussy from here," he hissed, the words hard, dry, sharp between his teeth.

"I took the liberty of making her wet for you," Acheron said jovially as he took Smythe's cape, hat and cane. 

"That's most kind of you."

"Oh, and it's the mirror room Mr. Barring is currently in. If you face this way, he will have a good view of the proceedings."

"Thank you, thank you." Smythe turned to me again and laughed. "My, my, he _is_ a worthy hypnotist--look, the little slut hasn't moved an inch!"

Acheron turned to me, too, feeling my arm. "You know, I think she is still trembling from arousal. Would you like to play with Mr. Smythe now, my dear? He is a friend of your Daddy's and mine, and we wanted to surprise you. He's come to do some very special things to you tonight."

Smythe undid his fly and took his cock in his gloved hand, stroking it lazily. "What were the Barrings' rules again? I forget."

"No vaginal sex, no pissing," Acheron purred. "I think that's your cue to step out of the tub, my dear."

Acheron guided me to stand with my face against the mirrored wall. Behind the mirror, I could hear Torsten screaming, screaming so loudly the mirror vibrated, yet I obeyed Acheron. Perhaps Daddy was being fucked really well right now, a big cock sliding inside of his pussy, just as Smythe's was now sliding into mine? Oh, but it was a wonderful cock, thick and fat; just what I'd wanted in my pussy, relieving the awful ache in exactly the way I had wanted. And if Daddy had sanctioned this, if Daddy was watching, it meant he accepted it, didn't he? The way Daddy now moaned, he must have been enjoying it as much as I was. 

But it was Smythe who now moaned louder, his face red as he fucked me, tiptoeing to push in deeper, deeper. He was around the same height I was, perhaps even shorter: I had never been fucked by such a small man before. But oh, was he ever so big where it counted! This made me giggle against the mirror, giggle in delight--I knew Daddy liked to see me enjoying myself. Smythe looked furious, angry as he fucked me, just as Daddy and Acheron always did, and it made my pussy hotter, wetter. 

"How does it feel?" Smythe snarled, wiping his forehead on his glove. "How does it feel, hmm?" he grunted and shoved his cock as deep inside of me as it would go, hitting my womb so that I moaned in pleasure, steaming up the mirror with my breath. 

"It feels good, sir," I panted, "so good." I had wanted another man's cock in my pussy for so long, secretly held out hope that Daddy would let another man fuck me this way, and now he'd found the perfect man for it, perfect. A man aggressive, his prick so hot and so big I too had to tiptoe so it wouldn't split me in two. It felt so wonderful tears prickled in my eyes and I pushed myself back on it. "Please, fuck me some more, sir, please fuck me some more."

"Oh, I will, my dear, I will." He sunk his fingertips into the hollows of my hips so that it hurt, slammed into me so deep it hurt, threw me against the mirror so hard it hurt. And I loved the pain, loved each blow, wetting the mirror with my tears, howling in sweet agony.

"Does it hurt, then? Is that why you thought you could keep this little pussy from me? Too big for you, am I?"

"No, sir, I--I love it, I love it." I was babbling, so aroused I was now wetting him completely; I could hear it from the way his balls slapped against my pussy at each of his strokes.

He shoved in again and pulled my head back by the hair. "Who does this little pussy belong to?"

"My Daddy," I answered automatically. 

Roaring in rage, Smythe yanked my head further back and spat on my face, spat on it again, smearing my face with his glove, with the stench of cigars and flowers. He shoved inside of me brutally, so brutally I screamed from the pain, yet he kept pulling my head back, bending my back like a bow. "You're wrong, my child, so wrong," he snarled in my ear as he speeded up his thrusts. "You see, every little girl's pussy in this town belongs to _me,_ " he said, wrapping his other hand around my throat. "Including yours. Say it."

"Sir, please--"

" _Say it!_ "

I sobbed. Perhaps this, too, was a part of the game--wouldn't Daddy punish me if I disobeyed, if I let him down? He always said that whenever he shared me with other men, I was to think of them as extensions of himself. All men were Daddy, he'd said, all men, if he but wished for them to be so. Ashamed, trembling around Smythe's cock, I made my voice as meek, as humble as I could. "My pussy belongs to you, sir," I croaked, his hand so tight around my throat I could barely speak. My head was about to burst from the blood he'd trapped there, my eyes bulging from my face, a grotesque Laura now staring at me from the mirror. "As every girl's does," I whimpered.

As he let go and as the oxygen rushed back into my lungs once more, I felt the hot, dark waves of the deepest of orgasms rising in my hips, and never had those waves felt as painful as they did now. My entire pelvis was packed with blood; I had to come, I had to, or else my womb would tear itself apart. I was so close, so close, yet I needed more. "Please, sir, please. Please let me come, please let my pussy come, it's yours, it's yours--"

"Come, then, and I'll come inside you," he snarled, rolling his hips, heaving behind me. "How would you like to bear my child? Hmm? A little girl for me, so I could fuck her, too? Take you both at once? Both of your little pussies split by my prick?" 

It was at that that I screamed, my pussy gushing: I burst in rivulets down my thighs, shaking as I ran down Smythe's balls, down his expensive suit. And it was only after that that the orgasm followed; I was but red and black waves, sucking him inside of myself, hungrily, my pussy and my womb convulsing so hard they sent my entire body spasming, the mirror rattling in its hinges. Smythe was groaning something indistinct as he kept fucking me, as he too pulsed inside of me, filling me with warm, delicious sperm. Yes, sperm, what I was hungry for: sperm to make a child, to duplicate me, to divide me so that I could be fucked by all these men that were my Daddy, the crime of incest multiplied. I was delirious with it, could feel my womb sucking his sperm inside of itself; I laughed hard, harsh, sharp, that laugh shattering into a thousand pieces as it echoed off the tiles.

And from the sound of my Daddy on the other side of the mirror, a sound like he was dying, I was sure he must have come, watching me ejaculate, fucked by one of his instruments, an avatar of my God, my Father. I laughed, smiled, radiant as Smythe grunted behind me; laughed in utter delight as he pulled out and his sperm ran down my legs, thick, abundant. 

"Get the funnel," Smythe murmured as I slid down onto the floor, still in a smiling heap. I had no care in the world--but what was this about a funnel? 

I discovered soon enough: I jerked as Acheron put the cold metal to my ass. "What are you doing?" I asked, but somehow, I knew not to be scared--he had put all kinds of things up my ass before. Perhaps this was what the enemas had been for; perhaps he was about to give me another one.

"Just stay where you are," Acheron said after he'd guided me to kneel with my face down on the floor, my rump in the air, the funnel holding my ass open. "We're going to give you something else that's very special. Can you hold still for us?"

I nodded.

"Good," Acheron said, then sat down on the floor cross-legged and offered me his cock. "Now, suck it, there's a good girl."

I obeyed, grateful. Acheron's cock was wonderful, too, so thick and salty; I hoped that he would be allowed to fuck my pussy tonight as well. Yet now, I choked, and not because of Acheron's size: it was because I could feel a warmth inside my guts, like that of another enema. I drew back for breath and looked behind myself. Oh, God, oh, God, it was just as I had thought: Smythe was now sitting on the toilet with his cock in his hand, directing an arc of bright yellow piss into the funnel, into my ass, into my guts. I screamed, screamed because this was wrong, completely wrong; even through my trance, I knew this was out of skew. Even if Daddy had allowed this, I hated it; hardly ever had I had to stop one of our games, but now I had to, absolutely had to. 

"Torsten--" I cried loudly so that Daddy would hear, cried out the signal of his first name, his cue to stop. "Torsten!"

Yet I only heard another moan, which I took for Torsten's acquiescence; oh, he was a cruel bastard, cruel, letting someone violate this act, this special act of ours. The most intimate thing we had ever shared, now claimed by another? What had I done? What had I done to deserve this? Was Daddy teaching me a lesson about my lust for other men? As Acheron shut me up by pushing his cock into my mouth, I burst into tears. 

I deserved it, I deserved it, the terrible little daughter I was, the terrible little slut, the one who was always teasing men, always greedy. So, so greedy for sperm and piss, so greedy that she had forgotten her Daddy; my tears wet Acheron's balls as he fucked my throat, as Smythe kept filling my ass with more piss. It felt like the stream of it, the horror of it would never end, and I wondered how much Smythe had been drinking--this was no impulse, this was a premeditated punishment. I imagined my Daddy offering Smythe beer, coffee, making his bladder swell just so they could teach me this lesson, to fill me so that I felt like I was a balloon about to burst.

Finally, Smythe sighed and I could no longer feel him pissing inside of me. I heard the toilet seat creaking, heard the sound of a cigarette being lit. "Now, hold it in for just a moment, my child," he said as he pulled the funnel out and moved to stand in the doorway, where he could watch us. 

Smythe let the funnel clatter onto the floor. "Now."

Brutally, Acheron thrust into my throat. I screamed as Smythe's piss burst out of my ass, spraying all over the toilet, spraying the wall itself, spraying the floor. Acheron cried out deep in his belly, his cock pulsing, flooding, choking me with sperm. He was still coming, his cock still spurting as he pulled back just in time, as the puddle of piss spread from underneath my knees to where he had just been sitting. 

I was in too much of a shock to think any longer; I just lay there on the floor, coughing, crying, soiled, each one of my holes hurting, leaking sperm and piss. 

"Aren't you going to clean it up, my girl?" Smythe said, mock-outraged. "You've got a perfectly good little tongue in your mouth. Go on. Chop chop."

Still sobbing, I licked up whatever trails of piss had not flowed down the drain yet. I gagged as I neared the drain itself, threw up a little in my throat, coughing out sperm and piss. "Please, sir. I am sorry. I have learned my lesson and I am so sorry--"

It was Acheron who now came and filled a bucket of water, first flushing the floor with it, then filling another and splashing it all over me. When he was done, I was still weeping quietly; Daddy had gone completely quiet. I worried that he disapproved of me, and nothing else mattered to me at that moment: I had hurt my Daddy somehow, and now I had not even atoned properly, perhaps; it broke my heart. "Please," I cried, not knowing who I directed that prayer to. Perhaps to God and his angels, perhaps to the Devil, but in that moment, I knew I wanted nothing more than someone to pick me up from the floor, someone to hold me, someone to just tell me it was all right. 

Yet Smythe walked up to me and lifted my chin with the tip of his shoe. "And that's just a warning, my child. Any more trouble from you, and I shall have your head."

"Yes, sir," I mumbled, but so quietly I wasn't sure if he had even heard. I lay there on the floor, catatonic as I heard the men leaving, heard two locks opening, heard two doors opening, closing. 

And at the bathroom door, my Daddy, so upset he was shaking.

"Laura, Laura--" he staggered through the door, then fell next to me on the wet floor in his pinstriped suit, his hair loose, his face wet from tears. "What have they done to you? What have they done to you? My child, my beautiful child, my beautiful child--" he sobbed and held me against his chest. 

I was tired, so tired and so confused. "So you don't hate me, Daddy?" I dared ask.

"Hate you?" He was so shocked he was trembling, his eyes red from weeping. "How could I ever--"

"That _was_ to punish me, wasn't it?" I said quietly, shuddered as I felt another trickle of piss escape my ass. "I've learned my lesson, Daddy."

"Oh, Laura," he held me and rocked me, rocked me, rocked me. "I love you. I love you so much. I would never, ever--God. Come, let's wash."

He spent a long time showering me, flushing my pussy, murmuring over me; I realised it was one of his spells, one to stop the life force of an enemy. "I will not have him make you pregnant," he murmured, "never while I live."

I still didn't understand. "Did I pass the test, Daddy?" I had enjoyed it, at least most of it, just as I had been told to. He had seen me orgasm, hadn't he? 

"Don't say things like that," he said, pale as he picked me up and carried me to the scarlet room. He brought me his special drink, and soon, I felt no worry at all, only happiness, elation, a deep peace as he pulled me into his arms. "I love you, I love you, I love you," he murmured, sobbed in my ear, and I could not understand why he was so upset. But he loved me, he loved me and that was all that mattered. I silenced him with kisses, soft kisses and told him I loved him, too. Relieved, I leaned back in his arms and finally fell asleep.


	10. Chapter 10

I was glad of Torsten's drugs, of his hypnotism over the next few days as he nursed me back to health and revealed to me just small glimpses of what had happened. Vast swathes of my memory were black; the little slits of light in the darkness where Smythe's and Acheron's actions shone trough blinded me with revulsion. When Torsten told me I might be pregnant, I threw up on our living room floor from sheer horror. 

"I'm not. Fuck. I'm not." I clutched at my belly, clawed at it in a fit of madness, very little of it brought on by the opiates. _"Fuck."_

"If you are, I can fix it for you. I promise," he said, agitated, furious. "Even if I have to rip it out with my bare hands."

"Don't. Don't even talk about it," I said, wiping my mouth. I swore I could feel my cervix, my womb curling up on themselves in disgust. "Fuck. Give me another drink."

"Gladly," Torsten said, filling my glass with double the whisky. "What time of the month are you in?"

"The worst." I had to put the glass down before I'd even sipped from it: I retched again. This was too early to be morning sickness, but the fact that it reminded me of it didn't help. "We've got two weeks to find out."

It turned out to be three weeks, then four. With mounting horror, I felt my moods swing up and down, felt my breasts grow sore, and all the while, I wanted to eject the worm, the parasite I was sure was now eating away at my womb. I asked Torsten to kick my belly, took all kinds of disgusting herbal drinks, as many drugs as I could, cried my eyes out every night. Needless to say, I didn't let Torsten take me--this had been the longest we had gone without sex, and it devastated me even further. Smythe had stolen my body from me, enslaved it to his will, taken away my greatest joy, my very life itself. "I'm going to kill him, I'm going to kill him, I'm going to kill him," I said, stabbing at pillows with pen knives, shattering plates, screaming out my rage. 

Until at the end of the fifth week, I bent double with pain and crawled to the toilet as fast as I could. My period had started, only with double, no, _quadruple_ the pain. Even as I slid off the toilet seat onto the floor, covered in cold sweat and speechless from pain, I was weeping from joy on the inside. Smythe's parasite, Smythe's poison, Smythe's monstrosity bled out from between my legs a gory mess, and I had never felt as blessed in my life. Delirious from pain, I swore to offer tributes to the Devil just as Torsten had done. 

And the very next day, still bleeding, I knelt in front of the statue of the Devil Torsten kept in his study. I smeared the Devil's grinning face with my blood, smeared his prick with my blood, sobbing in gratitude, the whisper of birch leaves gentle and sweet all around me. And when I invited Torsten to fuck my ass that night, we both marvelled at the last of the blood now flowing out of my pussy, adored it. We smeared each other with it, drank it, ate it, painted the sheets with it, our fucking frantic, ecstatic. 

After, we lay together for a long while, not unlike two warriors bathing in the blood of an enemy. 

"We have to leave this place," I said and laced my bloodstained fingers with his. 

He kissed my hair. "I know. I've started to make arrangements. I just didn't want to tell you earlier."

"When's the earliest we can leave?"

"After Birgitte's party." 

Less than a week, then. This very Saturday. I let out a sigh of relief, but only halfway. "What if he gets us before that? What if he does something to _you?_ "

"Don't say that," he said and hugged me close. 

"Will you do something for me?" I whispered, tracing the blood drying on his chest. 

"What is it?"

"Wipe away what you showed me. Wipe away all the details, all of them." 

"I will once we are in California." 

"No, Torsten. I want you to take them away, now. When I walk into that party, I don't want to be a woman who's been--" and it was then that I burst into sobs, the terror and the exhaustion of it all flooding out of me, my violent hiccoughs pushing more blood and tissue out of my pussy.

"Shh," he said, and I wondered if I had ever seen him so terrified, his eyes liquid from sorrow, and they were pulling me in, pulling me in. "I can't take all of it away now, but until California, I can take away everything that happened in the bathroom. But not the things that happened after."

"Better than nothing," I sniffled. 

"Now, breathe; look into my eyes and breathe."

He gathered the black velvet swathes in my mind and obscured the lights, obscured the slits, the rips that blinded me; I was stumbling in darkness but I preferred it to the glaring horrors. Yet, I remained aware that I had been raped, even if the event itself was a blank page in my mind. It would have been impossible to forget it had happened because of the blood still flowing from between my legs, but for the next few days, I softened the pain with all the drugs we had at our disposal, knowing that the more I took, the less I would remember even of my bleeding. 

I only let Torsten fuck my ass, but he did so furiously, with all the passion he was capable of. Yet none of it was truly violent this time; the only violence he committed upon me was that of tenderness, almost too much tenderness. We didn't fuck as father and daughter, only as two adults, as a grown man and a grown woman terrified of death. 

***

Outside, I had to face Birgitte as if nothing had happened. I was just a little ill, I said; bad period, that was all. Birgitte showered me in cooing and tenderness and tea and cupcakes; I shut up and let myself be pampered. I couldn't walk for long distances, so we just visited the hairdresser together: she insisted that they make our hair exactly alike. "Like two sisters," she said, clasping my hand, "just like old times." 

For the rest of that appointment, I let myself be drowned in her aimless gossiping and giggling; I could shut my brain down and let her chatter lull me into a torpor. As we walked into the taxi, however, a sudden fear clutched at my stomach. I was an idiot. An idiot. 

"Birgitte?"

"Yes?"

"Are you still seeing Acheron?"

"I haven't seen him for almost six weeks, now. The cad. Have you any idea what's happened to him?"

She was a poor liar, always had been, I thought. How could I have ever imagined she was not involved? Or was she? We had been wrong about Acheron, too, disastrously wrong. I did not know whether to trust even myself, now. _Fuck._

"No. I haven't seen him since August, either," I murmured, staring out into the street.

"Oh, by the way. The bathroom's bust _again,_ " she moaned theatrically and rolled her eyes. "Could I use yours before the party?"

"Sure, why not?" 

Torsten and I were staying at a hotel that night anyway. We hadn't told anyone we were leaving New York and had left the apartment as it was: I hated the idea of being parted from so many of the things I loved, but Torsten insisted we could have it all shipped over. We had managed to bring our most important possessions over from Sweden while there was a war on, hadn't we? The most important thing was to get ourselves out of here, as fast as possible. First a car, then a series of private planes, sparing no expense, to somewhere near San Francisco, he told me. Well, I'd rather be killed by an earthquake than Smythe, I'd quipped, but honestly, I couldn't wait to get away. Tomorrow, tomorrow we would put it all behind us.

But there was still the party tonight to struggle through. When Birgitte and I stopped at a café to have a quick lunch, I peeked into her handbag while she was in the toilet. There was a small, red notebook in there, marked with all kinds of names and dates, with some notes on what Birgitte, Torsten, Acheron and I had been doing in bed. The hairs on my neck stood on end. I had been right, right--or was I imagining it? Perhaps this wasn't her spying on us; perhaps this was just an ordinary diary she kept for herself, something she wrote half in code? After all, quick flick-through revealed there were no mentions of Smythe in it at all. 

But the most terrifying thing was that no matter whose side Birgitte was on, the notebook I was now holding was evidence of the real nature of my and Torsten's relationship. She was a witness, a key witness Smythe would be able to use against us, and I had no doubt whatsoever that Acheron could persuade her to do or say anything.

 _Fuck._ And why had I started to swear so much? Even in my head? I could barely light my cigarette, my hands were shaking that much. I only managed to slip the notebook into my own bag just in time before Birgitte returned. She made an exaggerated pitying face and took my hand. "I shouldn't have kept you so long. You go and have a rest before the evening; you look like you need it."

I glared at her, but forced my gaze to soften, even if inside, I was thinking _You bitch, you bitch, you stupid bitch_. I should have known better than to ever get involved with someone like her. She didn't have a malicious bone in her body, but her simplicity made her so easy to manipulate she could turn against us any moment. As we walked out of the café, I wanted to push her underneath the nearest car, I did, I did--

Yet I squeezed my hands into fists and didn't. _Tonight;_ I thought to myself, _I will make it through tonight. And tomorrow, I will run so far away I will never have to listen to your shrill laughter ever again._

***

Torsten arrived at the party a little late--some last-minute business, he said--but Birgitte herself was almost an hour late, now. The guests were starting to get nervous, but since it was a party organised by a winery--just inherited by a handsome young bachelor Birgitte had set her eyes on, in fact--the drinks were free and nobody was in a hurry to leave.

"Do you think her car has broken down?" I asked Torsten from behind my third glass of white wine. 

"She wasn't at the apartment yet when I left, that's the curious thing. You know how she takes hours to doll herself up." He sipped from his own glass and sprawled in our alcove. "You never know, maybe she did her eyeliner wrong and had to start all over again," he drawled.

"We should go check on her."

"By which you mean _I_ should go check on her, yes?" he lolled his head lazily against the corner of his seat. 

"She designated me co-hostess," I smirked. "Besides, I've got four more varieties to sample," I said and lifted my glass. "It wouldn't do to upset our host."

"Oh, all right," he grumbled. He got up to kiss me goodbye and whispered in my ear. "Remember what I promised to do to you tonight," he purred. 

"If I'm not too tired," I said, pointedly, implying I was. His face fell, so I immediately took his hand. "I'm sorry. It's just that I am too worried about her to think about sex right now." And I didn't say so out loud, but I was angry at him for presuming I was ready for that kind of sex yet. Perhaps once we were settled down in California under new names, new identities; perhaps then, we could pick up where we left off. As tired as I was, I forced myself to flirt with him, if only to defy my own traumas, to snip them in the bud. "Bring her back safe and there's a long, wet suck in it for you," I said. "Long, as in... shall we say thirty minutes?"

"Forty-five if I make it back in less than an hour," he purred, his eyes brightening once more.

"Done," I laughed and shook his hand. 

It took twenty-four minutes and three seconds for a waiter to approach me with such haste it was as if his apron was on fire. "There's a call for you, Miss. Your father. Says it's urgent."

Torsten was frantic. "Don't stay at the party, please, you've got to leave the party," he yelled down the line. "Get here now! I don't have time to explain, and I can't; not on the telephone." His voice was high-pitched, quavering, shrieky from hysteria. "Please, Laura. Get here as fast as you can." And at that, he hung up.

_Fuck._

Eighteen minutes of speeding and a well-bribed taxi driver later, I arrived at the apartment. Torsten was sitting on the sofa with his head in his hands, his tuxedo rumpled. He didn't even look up at me.

"The bathroom," he said, quietly.

I knew what had happened before I even stepped inside. I closed my eyes before I opened the door, then forced myself to look. 

Slouched half out of the bathtub, naked, lay Birgitte. Her cloud of blonde hair--hair exactly like mine--was now covered in blood. I stepped closer and saw that the back of her skull had been bashed in, and not by just one but several blows: brutal, brutal blows, fragments of brain and skull scattered all over her hair. But it was only when I had finished throwing up, panting over the toilet that I saw what was peeking out from her skull, half covered by hair and brain and blood. 

It was a short length of silver. At first, I thought it was a piece of jewelry, but as I wiped my mouth and crawled closer, I recognised it and reared back in horror. 

"Torsten," I croaked, then louder, _"Torsten."_

He stood at the door with his hands in his pockets. "Yes. I saw it, too."

It was the head of a silver greyhound, only its ears and its neck peeking out of Birgitte's brain. It had obviously come off while Smythe had assaulted her, and I wondered if it was before or after he'd realised he'd got the wrong girl. Before he'd had to run, run so fast he would rather risk leaving evidence than get caught. And the shame of having murdered the wrong girl--oh, yes, that would have been the worst thing, of course. 

That had been meant to be _my_ skull, _my_ blood, _my_ brain all over the floor. 

I threw up again, threw up until no more wine would come out. Torsten made a move so as to rub my back, but there was no room in the bathroom for Birgitte's corpse; the coward he was, he flinched away from it and stayed where he was. 

So I washed my face and mopped my mouth, splashing cold water all over my face and chest. "I am not touching it," I said.

"I think we should leave that to the police, anyhow," he said, holding his scented handkerchief to his mouth, looking like he was going to throw up himself. 

I laughed, completely hysterical, now. Perhaps it was the surreality of the situation, perhaps it was the delirium of a woman who had just escaped death. "Oh, yes. Our good friends, the police. Shall we call them before or after we have got the _hell_ out of here?" 

I didn't give him time to answer before I had stormed out of the door. 

He ran after me. "I'll send them a telegram--"

"You just do that." I buttoned up my coat. "Come on."

_Fuck, fuck, fuck._

We checked out of the hotel immediately even if it might have made us look suspicious; we didn't have a minute to waste. Despite our innocence, despite the evidence, I didn't want to hang around for questioning, afraid that Smythe would still somehow be able to turn it all against us. That would have been even more satisfying for him--to have us not on trial for incest but murder. I shuddered at the very idea as we climbed into our car and told the driver to take us to a small, seedy hotel on the outskirts of the city, halfway to New Jersey. The driver probably thought we were an eloping couple and smirked at us through the rear view mirror, even winking at Torsten knowingly. 

We did not fuck that night. We held each other like two babes, unable to sleep for most of the night. It was preferable to the nightmares: I would dream of licking Birgitte's pussy, Torsten's ass, and they would both be dead, but somehow still pushing bits of blood and brain and skull fragments into my mouth from their dead orifices. I had to keep swallowing, choking, and the blood and the brain and the bone would never end, scraping my throat and my stomach, suffocating me. 

No, I much preferred to stay awake, clutching at Torsten and soothing him between his own nightmares. If anything, he was more distraught than I was, it seemed: I had grown up so fast during the past two months that it felt as if I were the adult and he the child. All the shocks had made me harder, colder out of sheer necessity, the need to keep myself together. 

We paid extra for a private plane to leave westwards as soon as it was light. We managed to get some more sleep on the plane out of sheer exhaustion, and spent the rest of the day in a torpor, stirring only for food and for fuel breaks. And thus we continued for the next day and a half, finally reaching San Francisco--or its outskirts--on Monday night. It was so dark I did not pay attention to my surroundings much; all I knew was that our new home was an old Spanish villa and that I could hear the sea outside. All fine by me, I thought; we collapsed and finally, finally my fatigue was so deep that I slept without dreaming.


	11. Chapter 11

Our first week in California passed me by in a haze; the sun showered me with sparks that danced underneath my eyelids and all was brightness, silence. I did not feel like myself, but that was only a good thing, I suppose, as we had to go out under assumed names. We did not enter the Californian society yet--the plan was to lie low until the dust had settled, until we could be sure we were no longer suspects. Therefore, we had to become new people, at least for the time being. Torsten shaved his moustache and spoke slowly to try and eradicate the last of his accent; I dyed my hair red and wore plainer clothes, no longer those of the femme fatale. 

The first time we looked at our new selves and each other in the mirror, I burst into tears. He held me from behind, following me onto the floor as I slouched onto my knees, not letting go of me no matter how much I struggled. 

"What's the matter?" he said.

"That's not Laura," I said, wringing a hand in my hair, the scent of henna bitter and unpleasant in my nostrils. It felt like an invasion, Smythe imposing his will on my body again from a continent away--it was thanks to him we'd had to do this, annihilate ourselves. But I did not want to annihilate myself. I wanted to keep on being Laura, wanted Torsten to remain himself, my father--yet it was no longer Torsten I saw in the mirror, either. "And that's not my Daddy," I said, more quietly, now. 

"Don't say that," he whispered against my cheek. "I can't bear you saying that. Now, more than ever, we need to stay focused, remember who we are."

"Why can't we go back to Sweden? He wouldn't follow us there."

"You know perfectly well why. We're safer here."

"I don't want this," I said, bursting into tears once more. "I didn't ask for this." I just wanted to be small, the child in my father's arms, even less able to cope now after all that had happened. I desperately wanted to return to the state of innocence I had not visited since Smythe had done what he'd done. "I only want you," I said, wiping my nose.

"And you have me," he said. 

"But not this way," I said, shaking my head, well on my way to hysteria. "Not like this." 

He took my hair in his hands and held my head up by it, lifting me until I felt but a rain of needles down my entire body. "You have me, Laura," he said, more sternly, now. "I haven't gone anywhere."

I should have been grateful for this, of his giving me pain to numb my hysteria, but I wasn't. "Let me cry. Please. Allow me that at least," I said, choking on my tears. 

"Then, cry." 

He let go of me so fast I slumped onto the floor in a sobbing heap, not least because of the scorn I'd heard in his voice. He stood up and made to leave. "Please, don't leave me," I said, clutching at his legs. "Please. Just let me--" 

And he let me; he did not move at all, but he let me. I cried it all out, cried out all the horrors and the stress of the past two months, cried and sobbed and screamed until I was exhausted. 

When I was finally quiet, he picked me up from the floor and without a word, sat in his armchair and spread me across his lap. And there, he took out his belt and whipped me with it, beat me with it until I was swimming in a red sea of pain, of relief. We exchanged no words; dirty talk would have shamed this act. It was sacred, holy. 

And sacred, too, was the moment he lifted me to the bed and entered me. He had not whipped me, had not taken my pussy since Smythe; but now, with his hands and his belt and his cock he reclaimed me, _took_ me until I was vibrating all over with pleasure-pain, sobbing in pure joy. Tears fell down my cheeks at each one of his thrusts, a river, a flood of all the agonies I had suffered pushed out of me by his love.

"Daddy, Daddy, Daddy," I sobbed into his ear, clutching him with all my limbs, shaking underneath him in orgasm. And again he became my Daddy for me, whispering "Laura" in my ear over and over, fucking the pain out of me, fucking the hurt out of me until it ran down over his balls, smeared all over our thighs. This was yet another deflowering, a broken and bruised Laura being slain, and I squeezed my pussy around his cock so that he would stay there forever, the only man who had ever been worthy to claim me this way. With his sperm, he washed my violation out of me; with his tongue, he kissed my pussy into bloom and took it again, again until we were both exhausted, spent.

"Laura, Laura," he whispered into my ear as he lay on top of me, an incantation, a spell, a summoning of my true essence. _One crowned with laurels,_ his empress, his queen, just like he'd always said. And with his kisses he crowned my brow anew; with his cock swimming in sperm and my sweetness, he re-anointed me; with the weight of his body he enthroned me. A restoration, a resurrection, the sound of water and leaves whispering around me and he the very forest itself, the darkness we had sprung from, he a Sweden alive and humming in my arms.

"Thank you," I said and kissed him, the sweetest of kisses, the most innocent; the child-empress crowning her champion in turn. My emperor, my father-lover, the incubus saturating me with his evil once more, grounding me, making me whole. "Thank you, Daddy."

We lay there for a long while until our sweat had dried, until he finally slipped out of my body. It was so warm here we didn't need to pull the quilt over us; he played with the pearlescent strands of sperm caught on the curls of my pussy. "You'll have to start shaving again," he said, grinning. "So that they will take you for a natural redhead."

I traced his shaven upper lip, sticky from my juices, the bareness of it still so strange. "And you should assume the part of a woman," I murmured. "You are certainly pretty enough."

He laughed softly and scooped up our fluids from between my legs. "Have you thought about our new names yet?" 

Names were power, and we had decided our new names should represent things we wanted to both draw to ourselves and to project outwards, to embody with our lives. We had made a list of suitable surnames, then whittled it down to three--all of which he had liked so much he had left the final choice to me. And here, I had soon realised, we had our chance to choose names truer than the ones they had given us at birth. To discard those ones with which others had sought to bind us to their expectations, to the Church and Jesus Christ. 

"A new baptism," I murmured, tracing the cruel curve of his lips. And in that moment, I knew, knew the only name we could ever bear.

"Morgonstierna," I said and smiled. _Morning Star._

And bright, beautiful, damned he glowed as he traced an inverted pentagram on my forehead with our fluids. "In the name of Lucifer and all the legions of Hell, I baptise thee Morgonstierna." 

I daubed my fingers with the wetness at the tip of his cock and drew the same sigil on his forehead. "In the name of Diana and all her witches joyous and proud, I baptise thee Morgonstierna." 

I kissed his forehead and he pulled me into a deeper kiss, sighing into my mouth in satanic delight. "And first names?"

"Mmm. I quite like the sound of Diana. But what about you?" I tapped his nose. "Whatever could be devilish enough for you?"

"What is it the English call him? Old Nick?"

"I am _not_ calling you 'Nick'."

"'Nicolas,' then. Spelled the French way. More refined, I think."

"And profoundly effeminate," I quipped. "And therefore, perfect," I yelped, cackled as he tickled me in revenge. 

***

We did not leave the house; he had hired enough staff to enable us to remain indoors. The servants did not stay long; Torsten told them he needed peace and quiet, as he had business to attend to. And that business was me. Confined as we were, we focused on recovering what was left of our old selves, creating ourselves anew. The ghosts of Smythe and Acheron still oppressed us, but even if I had unexplained moments of panic, flashes of things I could not quite remember, I never asked Torsten for details. Each night, I thanked the stars for having been spared the worst blows of what had happened, the experience itself; the aftermath had been traumatic enough. Each night, I thanked Torsten for having removed the worst from me, thanked him with my mouth, my pussy, my ass, my entire body. 

One day, he wanted to piss inside of my ass as foreplay, and gladly, I yielded. Yet, as he pushed a funnel inside of me, I felt a sudden flash of horror, as if some sort of seizure, my entire vision going white for a moment. And from the way he stiffened, from the way he stopped moving completely, I knew. He wasn't doing this just because it was our oldest and dearest fetish; it was to do with something that had happened to me. It had to be. He was too nervous, too uneasy, and in the mirror above the bathroom sink, I caught a glimpse of his eyes, the haunted look in them.

That cold flash went through me again and I felt nauseous. "Don't tell me," I snapped. "Whatever you do, don't you dare tell me a _thing._ " That way Smythe could not claim this, could not take this, could not steal what had always been ours. I turned to look at Torsten over my shoulder and kissed his hand, my voice quiet, now. "This belongs to us," I whispered. "Please, Daddy."

"Yes," he said, stroking my cheek. "Only you and me, my sweet child," he said, and I could see he was choking back tears as he let his piss flow into me, filling me with sweet warmth. "Only you and me."

The very next day, he elaborated on this fetish; he was so obsessed with possessing me, filling me with himself that every time he needed to empty his bladder, he did so inside of me. Sometimes, he would use a plug to stop my ass, make me lie down in bed with his piss inside of me as he kissed me, caressed me; sometimes he would make me suck his cock as I sat on the toilet, expelling the urine enema. We had never been dirtier, yet had never washed each other clean so completely, so perfectly, submerged in a warm, golden sea of bliss. At the end of the day, he refrained from pissing for so many hours so that when he filled me for one last time, I could offer it all for him to drink, shitting his piss into his mouth while he stroked himself into a violent orgasm underneath me. 

We hugged in the shower, still delirious, I sobbing from exhaustion, he from relief: finally I felt empty of Smythe now, somehow, my subconscious knowing the reasons why while my conscious mind remained blissfully ignorant of them.

Torsten even took to photography, saying he wanted a pictorial record of his reclaiming of me, of him possessing his daughter anew. He had a private darkroom installed, so that he could develop the photographs himself; no shop would have. He hung each photograph of me in an alcove of his bedroom--where a statue of the Virgin Mary had been kept, I suppose--adding a new picture every few days until it resembled his old wall of miniatures. By day, he hid this work from the servants' view, locking the alcove's brightly painted wooden doors; by night, he photographed new material to complete the set. After a month had passed, he had created the most beautiful work of art, something I had never even thought him capable of, such was the adoration now present in the display. It was a prayer niche to me, to us, an altar to an extraordinary love taken to extremes few people ever reached, of two sinners twisted and bent like Renaissance saints pierced by arrows of ecstasy.

The first photographs were of me naked, at his feet; then, with his cock in my mouth, my pussy, my ass. And little by little, the images flowed with more sperm, more piss, more strings of wetness lashing my thighs; there, my ass gaping wide, a rivulet of his sperm running down between the lips of my pussy. Then, his hands spreading my ass, first two thumbs, then eight fingers; and at last, the shock of his entire fist inside of me, my face out of focus in the background, staring into a world only I could see. It was an act of butchery, that of love. With one particular photograph, I was in some strange way reminded of Birgitte's corpse--I was bent over, hanging from ropes in the ceiling, whipped into unconsciousness. I looked dead, but serene; the image did not terrify me at all but filled me with a strange sort of calm, a detachment. It was only in these pictures, while looking at what we did from the outside, that I finally, truly, viscerally realised the sublime, numinous, transcendent beauty of the love we shared.

Had anyone in the world ever felt like this, except in divine union, in some sacrifice to a heathen god? I asked him this as he held me in front of the altar, in the light of the candles he'd lit around it. 

"No one in the world will ever love as us," he said, his voice solemn, lost in thought. "Perhaps the Barring curse will die with us; perhaps we are the last."

And I felt a strange comfort in this; it set us apart from the others, affirmed our uniqueness, made us sovereigns of perversity. I felt grateful even to Smythe, because had it not been he who had pushed us into this, without realising he was doing us a favour? If anything, he had reaffirmed our power, our strength, the bond we shared. 

***

It was the very next day Torsten let out a high, incredulous noise as the newspapers arrived. He ran to me, knocking my coffee over without caring that he'd burnt his arm. He held the coffee-stained newspaper out to me, so agitated he was short of breath. "Look! Look!"

MILLIONAIRE MURDERER DROWNED

"Sir Cyril Smythe, 50, accused of murdering socialite Birgitte Lind, 16, was found drowned in the Hudson River on Thursday night. The police searched Smythe's house and found a suicide note and a confession to the Lind murder, both written in his own hand. While the police still suspect foul play may have been involved--" 

I let the paper fall from my hand, stunned. "Well."

"Isn't it fantastic?" Torsten exclaimed. He pulled me bodily up from my chair and danced me around the kitchen until I was yelping, stumbling. 

I laughed with him, but still, I had my doubts. "Can we be sure it's so fantastic? What if they suspect it was us?"

"We have an alibi, don't we? We're on the other side of the country, for crying out loud!"

"They might still think we hired someone to get rid of him. Who do you think it was, anyway?" I could not imagine Smythe killing himself; suicide note or not, I was sure he had been pressured into it.

"Acheron springs to mind. He really did have a soft spot for poor old Birgitte."

I closed my eyes and could still see the silver greyhound sticking out of her skull; feel the flesh that had been so warm underneath my hands cold, clammy, dead. " _I_ would have killed him for it," I whispered against Torsten's chest. "It's almost a shame I was robbed of that privilege."

Torsten sighed and kissed my hair. "You would've had to fight me for it."

"So, what do we do now?" 

"We celebrate."

***

For the first time, we left the house, although even now, we were only skirting the underworld, far from high society. Or perhaps we were closer to it than we thought, I mused as Torsten led me to a very respectable-looking, opulent restaurant. Only what happened in this restaurant was far from respectable: while the patrons wore the most beautiful designer gowns and the most exquisitely tailored tuxedoes, inside each gown slinked a man and inside each tuxedo, strode a woman. 

And no one slinked as beautifully as Torsten did. I was grateful of the simplicity of my tuxedo; it meant all eyes were on Torsten. Some were adoring, some were jealous, but all of them were rapt, curious. He wore sapphire satin wrapped tight about his body, swishing around his legs in torrents of blue, the cut of the dress emphasising the femininity of his hips. How on earth he'd kept the costume from me, I did not know; I had not seen him in women's clothes since we had left Europe. But that was Torsten: he had been anticipating a victory as any queen would have, had taken time to plan his dress for the moment our enemy finally lay dead. 

And the most arousing part of it all had been his transformation: I had approached it with as much reverence as he had. We hadn't spoken much as I had shaved him all over, tightened the laces of his corset, applied his wig and makeup, entranced by the process. But all throughout, he had been erect and I'd known he could smell how wet I was; now I was shaven, too, just for tonight, my pussy slick against the silk underpants I'd borrowed from him. So I had powdered him and painted him, zipped up his dress, and finally, had wrapped my diamonds around his neck and wrists, possessing him with them the way he'd possessed me with his silver. 

And now he, my beautiful queen was the star of the show, commanding adoration wherever he went. I did not talk much, preferring to drink, smoke, bask in the way Torsten had perfected his femininity, lounging more sensually than any of the women here did. He no longer exaggerated it at all; this was a state more natural than masculinity to him, I thought, a rare chance for his true nature to show through. And he had a ball, dancing many men, some women until he finally collapsed at our table, complaining of how his feet hurt from the high heels.

"No beauty without pain," I said, laughing from behind a cloud of smoke.

He leaned back on the sofa and blew me a theatrical kiss. "You'll have to fight three duels in a bit, by the way."

"Oh?" 

"Three young Swedes, just arrived," he leered. "All desperate to have me. So desperate they might even agree to share."

"Oh, no," I said, shaking my head. "Why should I duel them when I could watch them?" 

Torsten's face lit up at that. And my heart broke a little: he had perhaps expected me to deny him, but if our last affairs had been disastrous, wouldn't it only be appropriate to replace the bad memories with new, pleasanter ones?

"There's a private room at the back," I said and nodded towards the bar. "They told me it's available for a price."

"Then take it," he said, leaping up in his seat.

"I already have," I grinned and took his mouth with a kiss. 

I didn't know the three young men's names, and I didn't care. They were brawny, blond, healthy-looking lads, somewhere in their twenties, I presumed. And to my great delight, they all seemed to like women as well as men. Torsten and I abandoned ourselves to their caresses, to their noisy, wet kisses. For a brief moment, I had thought of just sitting and watching as they fucked Torsten, but no, no: I was horny as hell, desperate to finally re-enter the world of promiscuity, to be my own whore-self again. So when they bent us over the same dining table, the same white tablecloth and started to fuck us both we moaned in unison, laughing and kissing each other between their thrusts, giving them the time of their lives. 

They circled around us, taking turns with our asses, our mouths. "I've never done anything like this before," the youngest man gasped incredulously as I sucked his cock into my mouth from Torsten's ass. He was so sweet, so much younger than I was in his way, looking very much like a confused, yet ecstatic little boy as he ejaculated into my mouth. I laughed around his cock, his sperm bursting through my lips, and all through the night, the sperm kept on flowing. We were bathing in it, smearing ourselves with it, sucking and fucking, frenzied in our heat, our excess.

Even as the last of the men collapsed, utterly exhausted, I slipped down from my table and leaned between Torsten's legs, spreading them wide. His ass looked beautiful, once more a pussy, a distended, swollen little _cunt;_ he hissed as I told him this, as I asked him to let me taste it. 

And in front of those three strangers, Torsten kicked me down onto the floor, lifted up his dress and squatted over me.

"Beg."

"Please, please," I moaned, my hand on my pussy, my other hand's fingers buried in my ass. I was masturbating furiously, shaking: the sight of his ass hovering above me, his beautiful pussy now beading with come pushing me to the edge in seconds. "Please, let me taste it, please shit it out for me, please, shit it in my mouth, please, please--"

And my last "please" turned into a cough, a gurgle; now he was on his knees, shitting three men's come into my mouth. Six ejaculations' worth of sperm, white and a little yellow, oh God, oh, God--I stuck my tongue out as far as I could, determined to watch even as drops of sperm flew into my eyes. That's how hard he was pushing it out, farting it out, thick chunks of it sluicing out of his ass into my mouth, warm, delicious. It was revolting, horrifying and one of the men groaned in disgust: the other two swore loudly in surprise, not believing their eyes. And those noises of disgust were what made my orgasm now tear, ravage its way through me; I sobbed, sending the chairs clattering on the floor as my legs kicked helplessly, Torsten still shitting sperm all over my face. I screamed, screamed like a madwoman, and then I was suffocating as Torsten sat on my face, forcing his ass onto my mouth. And gladly, I drank, swirled my tongue in his hole, licking him on the inside, sucking out every drop, huffing and panting into his ass in gratitude. 

Torsten keened, jerking on top of me; he turned around and swiftly, pulled me to lie on top of himself. I knew what he wanted, knew it exactly: the men groaned in disgust once more as I spat, dribbled whatever sperm was left in my mouth into Torsten's. The alkalinity of the sperm, the saltiness, the bitterness, shot through with the sweetness of that trace of his saccharine-flavoured shit: he was beyond ejaculating now, but shook underneath me in complete and utter fulfillment, his eyes fluttering shut in ecstasy. Behind us, I could hear the three men dressing, leaving us; they slammed the door behind them and I kissed Torsten, laughing breathlessly into his mouth.

"You are outrageous."

"And so is my daughter," he purred proudly and licked one last drop of sperm from my chin.

***

At home, he was still heated and so was I; we continued our celebrations in his bed. I undressed in seconds, yet he never took his costume off, and I adored the way the blue of his dress spread out over the blood-red, Latin bedcovers. His dress looked like a flower, and I wanted to make him into a flower, too, I said. I glanced at the jar of cream on the bedside table.

He said nothing, understanding my meaning immediately. He looked at the jar, then at me; he nodded and spread his legs. 

I had hoped for this, had anticipated this, and so had he. Before I had dressed him, I had filed my own nails short, buffed them, letting him watch as I did so. That must have been why he had taken three men, knowing he needed something more than usual tonight, more than our toys, more than my fingers. He, too, needed to wash away the memory of Acheron; Acheron, who had never inserted his hand into him fully. I knew and Torsten knew that this must have been psychological; that some strange part in him had saved this act for me and me only, because he trusted no one else enough. Enough to take his life into her hand the way I now did, sliding all of my fingers inside of him; in awe, I felt the pulse of the great vein beating inside, the walls of his guts so thin. Tissue-thin, I had been told; I couldn't not think of that as I slowly fucked him with my hand, held his entire body with my palm. 

And now, it was I who was crying as I opened him, crying drunkenly, from sheer happiness as I got my hand into its widest part: I was possessed of such tenderness that it split me in half, making me shake from what he was now giving me. We could do it, tonight we could do it, finally, finally; I felt his body pulling me inside.

"Daddy--" 

Even if he, too, was shaking, his eyes glazed, he was still able to stroke my cheek, speak to me in the most tender of voices. "Shh. My child. Daddy loves you. Can't you see?" he laughed. 

"I love you too, Daddy," I laughed through my tears.

I kissed his cock, now half-hard over his stomach. I clasped it and took it into my mouth, sucking it into hardness, less firm than it had been before, now a gentler erection in comparison to his violent lust at the club. His head fell back, his fingers trembled against my cheek and his throat bobbed; from the way he licked his lips, I knew he was swallowing tears. He drew in a shivering breath, two, three, and there, there: my entire hand slipped inside of him, settling inside of his body as if it had always been meant to sit there, the muscles of his ass wrapping themselves tightly around my wrist. 

I had done this with Birgitte but had not loved her, oh, God, I had not loved her. But the way Torsten now howled, howled as if he was dying, a feminine wail of utter surrender--it terrified me, it broke my heart, it made me sob in turn. He lifted his head and he looked more drunk than he'd ever been from the wine tonight, drugged, lost; without his moustache he'd looked so much younger, but now his face was but a mass of wrinkles as he frowned, winced, shook in his shock. 

"Laura, Laura, Laura--" he fumbled for my hand; I laced my fingers with his. "Laura--"

I let his cock slip from my mouth, fat, wet, thick; the heat around my hand was unbelievable, feverish, his very body a furnace around my hand. And that vein, oh, his lifeblood now beating so strongly against my touch--I followed the pulse of that vein and fancied that if I only reached deep enough, I would be able to hold his heart in my hand.

"You feel amazing, Daddy," I said, and my voice was again smaller, that of a girl adoring, mad with joy from a new pleasure her father had revealed to her. But it was not a silly voice, not a meek voice, not playful at all: it was that of a child religious, filled with a child's faith. 

Only mine was faith in my Father. "We made it, Daddy," I whispered, kissing his cock. 

We'd made it out alive, we'd made it here, here onto this bed, my little body penetrating his. And it was a miracle, a beautiful, perfect miracle. A reversal of the man taking the woman, an inversion of childbirth, something a man had never been meant to experience; another mystery unveiled.

"We made it indeed," he murmured in awe, the corners of his mouth twitching in ecstasy as I twisted my hand a little. "Would you kiss me?" he asked me, quiet, fragile.

"Anything for you, Daddy," I whispered. I moved around very carefully, so that I could sit a little to his side and keep on playing with his ass as I kissed him. And we kissed forever, it seemed; I did not look at the clock, only counted the pulses of the vein inside of his body, his steady breathing, his rapturous little murmurs. He sucked my tongue, I sucked his; sometimes it was he who rocked himself upon my hand, sometimes I who twisted her hand so that he broke the kiss and moaned into my ear. And all the while, I murmured "I love you, Daddy," entranced by the beauty of his smeared eyes, smeared lipstick, the diamonds glittering with each trembling breath he took. My father, my mistress, my everything; I could not ask for anything more than this. 

Yet he wanted more; he keened into my mouth, then pulled back, clasped his cock and bit his lip. "Please."

I slid down his body and took his cock into my mouth once more: the very idea of taking my hand out hurt my heart, even if my arm was sore, even if both of us desperately needed sleep. But we needed this, needed each other more than anything else in existence. Steadily, I lengthened my thrusts until I could give him that tug, the sweetest of tugs upon his anal muscles, plunging in and pulling out of him again and again. Just as he had done to me, I hooked my fingers on each tug as I pulled out; curled them just as I brushed past his prostate, making him howl into the ceiling. 

He stared at me, furious, mad, beautiful; he twisted his hand in my hair as I sucked his cock and kept staring into my eyes even as he came undone. I moved my fingertips just to the outer muscles, now, forcing his orgasm out of him, fucking it out of him; again, he howled and finally, he spilled into my mouth. It was a thin, short ejaculation but I had never seen him orgasm so violently before: for a moment, I worried I might have killed him, torn something in him, that's how shocked he looked. He froze in place completely, his face entirely red, twisted like a monstrous mask: yet that horror melted into a convulsion, two, and finally he fell slack.

"Please, please--" his hands hovered around my head, my hands, gesturing for me to let go. 

I did so gladly, my hand trembling from exhaustion as I slowly pulled it out and wiped it clean. But even then, I had to pull his dress off him, pull the diamonds off him, the stockings; I did not let myself collapse beside him until I could hold his entire body against mine naked, skin to skin. He was too tired to even weep; his sobs were dry, happy, his arms around me those of a man drowning.

I, too, clung to him; I drew the bedcovers around us and hugged him tight, his head against my heartbeat. 

"I love you so much, Daddy," I sighed, kissing his head, holding him close until we fell into a deep, soft sleep free of tyrants and corpses.


	12. Chapter 12

Every day, I felt blinded by the sun, the strangeness of an October filled with sunshine and flowers; every day, I became more restless. I was desperate to call Alistair, to ask him how our business was going, but it was too early. Even if I trusted him to keep our secrets, to keep funneling our money to us through a network of secret accounts, I was still afraid we would be found out. Even if, of course, we had done nothing--but I was still not convinced the police felt that way. I suspected even the servants, that one of them was in the service of the FBI--I didn't even know whether the FBI _were_ after us, but I couldn't afford not to be paranoid. Oh, hell, why hadn't we just stayed and confessed that we'd only discovered the body? They might have let us be! And even if they had decided we had committed the murder, there would have been _closure._ This waiting was driving me mad; I was not ready to become a hermit just yet. I had been a prisoner all my life when I had been confined to Forssa. My life had only just begun and I wasn't going to give it up just yet.

I had to do something, so I started to work on the house instead. Torsten laughed as I began to decorate our surroundings, to tend to the garden, to devour mail order catalogues for new furnishings. He said I was in danger of becoming a housewife, but sometimes he joined me in the garden because it was not as if he had much to do himself. In this climate, he soon realised, he was able to indulge his love of exotic flowers and spent many an hour tending to them, guarding them with a nervous jealousy. His books had been shipped over by now, but he wasn't satisfied with them; the fact that he couldn't go out partying as much as he wanted to made him uneasy. Therefore, to compensate for the bourgeois nature of our new hobbies, we had even more sex than usual, played out scenarios that sometimes lasted for days.

And our sexual play was the key to our happiness, as it always had been: our exile, our isolation brought out our true natures, honed them, sharpened them. Just like the previous winter, we now fell into a period where we absorbed ourselves in our play twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. But this time, we were not surrounded by snow and frost; oh, no, the climate made more elaborate games possible. Now, he could order me into going around naked all day, preferably on all fours, while he remained fully clothed. He gave the servants days off and had me serve him instead--thus, giving me something to do and the passion, the dedication to do it with. And for this, I was grateful; I had never felt such peace during our stay here. Whenever I could kneel at my Daddy's feet, collared and leashed, offering him his brandy, his cigarettes, the noise in my head was finally quiet, my entire body still. 

And he, too, enjoyed his fatherhood once more, turning it into his own kind of service. For isn't even the most tyrannical of kings endowed with responsibility for his subjects? Thus, with his care and his power he subjugated me, suffocated my fears, crushed them in his fist.

There were moments when I could barely see, barely hear from my trances of pain, and tonight was no exception. He'd strung me up with rope so that I was hanging from the ceiling by my wrists, tiptoeing upon the floor as he let the cat o'nine tails sing upon my skin. I had lost all sense of time; all I knew was the sweet, throbbing warmth of pain cocooning me, the white glimmer of his crooked smile. 

By the time he had finished, it was dark, the only light in the room that of the candles and the flickering All Hallows' lanterns outside. His features were swallowed by the shadows; I could only see the shape of his lashes, the curve of his mouth, the curl of smoke he now let escape through his lips. He stepped closer and the thin light beams from the lanterns struck his eyes, refracting from them as if from glass. 

He smiled at me. "Come, my child. Daddy's got something he's wanted to show you for a long time."

This was it, I thought. Tonight we were going to do _it._ Despite the pain-trance, a shiver went up and down my spine, fluttering through my pussy. He had not let me rinse myself tonight, had not fucked my ass for days so that it would be _succulent_ for him, he'd said. The night the veil between the worlds was thin, the night sacred to all witches--was there a more appropriate holiday for finally indulging in the filthiest of all sins? 

That's what he'd told me as he had laid me down in his lap and prepared me. He'd taken the steel plug once more and coated it in glycerine, then had sprinkled, sugared it all over with cocaine dust. Once he had inserted the plug into my ass, the cocaine entered my system so fast I swooned, falling completely slack in his arms as wave upon wave of euphoria washed through me. And even as he had lashed me, made me dance for him, the euphoria had not faded, the plug had not fallen out, clutched even more tightly by my ass at his every stroke. With his drugs and his toys and his whip he was inside of me, outside of me, binding me, holding me forever, perfect.

So when he finally untied my hands and told me to follow him to the storage closet I obeyed gladly, adoring him as I walked beside him on all fours, like the most loyal and loving of dogs. "Is it a present, Daddy?" I asked, my heart light from joy.

"You could call it that." He opened the door and gestured to one of the suitcases. "That one. Open it."

The light in the room was dim, as yellow as the firelight. The lamp always kept flickering and I had been nagging at him to get it fixed; I was sure it was about to die on us any moment now. But now I ignored the flickering, knelt upon the floor and snapped the suitcase open, just as he had told me to. It was empty but for one thing: at the bottom lay a stick of polished, dark wood. My heart beat faster; my pussy pulsed. Something new to beat me with, something thicker than his rattan cane, something to bring me more bruises, more beautiful flowers to decorate my skin with--

\--except that when I picked up the stick, I realised it was not intact. Something had been attached to the end with nails and had now come off, and in the bare, white heart of the wood, there were thick, dark stains. 

Blood. 

I knew immediately what this object was, and that's exactly why I didn't let it fall from my hands. To let go of it would have been cowardice. There was some perverse logic to this, some meaning; it was symbolic of something. Perhaps it was a test. Perhaps he wanted me to confront my fear, or even better, prove to him that I had conquered it, that I had let go of that gruesome day. 

But he just stood there, smoking, waiting for me to ask him, so I did.

"A souvenir? But why, Daddy? Are you mad?"

He stumped his cigarette, then leaned against the doorframe with his hands in his pockets. "Evidence, my child. Why would I leave it there when it had my fingerprints all over it?"

At first, I didn't understand what he meant. But then I remembered what he'd said as he'd arrived late for the party. 

_Some last-minute business._

No. He couldn't have. He couldn't have. 

"But you didn't--"

"You think not?" he said, laughing, wiping a streak of cocaine off his nose. When I said nothing, he squatted in front of me, took my leash and pulled me close, pursing his mouth at me with a mocking croon. "Ooh, Torsten Barring, the effeminate, cowardly, limp-wristed _faggot._ He wouldn't be capable of such a deed, would he?"

And now, I finally let the cane clatter into the suitcase; I was trembling too much. I was looking into the face of a murderer, a murderer. The midwinter of his eyes poured down me and I shivered, froze, every hair on my body standing on end. He looped the leash around his fist and brought me ever closer, staring at me, drinking in my fear, horror, disgust. And yet he had saved us, he had framed Smythe, _he had done it for us,_ had not hesitated to slay an innocent to save us--

"D-Daddy," I stammered. My heart was about to burst out of my chest, my ribs were about to crack; I was about to break, break into a thousand pieces. 

He tilted his head, too cold, too swift, too inhuman; still, he kept on smiling. "Yes?" 

My father, my murderer, my Devil; again, I stuttered, the words a jumble in my throat. "W-when the time comes--" I said, choking, too overwhelmed to even cry. I struggled to breathe, had to swallow again and again, force my lungs to work once more. "If it ever looks like they will catch us, either of us, if they'll ever try to part us--"

"Yes?"

"Promise me--promise me you will do--do the same--the same thing to me."

He threw back his head and laughed, a barking, high-pitched faggot's laugh; above us, the lightbulb crackled and died. We were plunged into complete darkness, the darkness of Hell itself, and within it, his embrace was tender, loving, warm. 

"I will, my child," he said, kissing my hair, "I will."

***

I don't know how we got into the bedroom, whether I crawled there with him or whether he carried me, but I do know that when he lowered me onto the bed, I was still shaking from shock. I was crying, laughing, crying and laughing again; the roughness of the woollen bedcovers a sweet agony against the welts now blossoming upon my back. They hurt even sweeter as he, now fully undressed, laid himself on top of me and ground against me. The weight of his body made the plug feel awful inside of me, but it was how he wanted it, how _I_ wanted it. 

"Tell me," I panted into his shoulder. "Tell me how you did it, Daddy, tell me."

"Afterwards, if you're a very good girl," he said. He stopped to light one of the bedside lamps and laid himself down beside me, tracing his fingers across my belly. "And tonight of all nights, I don't want us to be in a hurry. Do you understand, my child?"

"Yes, Daddy." 

And there was nothing more natural for me than to fall, to slip into complete trust and girlhood once more. He was not hypnotising me and that's what made my heart ache, to know he trusted me this much. Even as the older, bitter, swearing Laura now faded into but a voice in the background, I realised I had not felt this young and small since August, that I had finally reclaimed that state of innocence I had lost. And it was exactly because of his monstrosity, his darkness so much greater than mine; it was nearer to how we had been on that day on the pier, the child who'd possessed but a fraction of her uncle's evil. And I loved it, loved feeling so virginal in his shadow, the cocaine singing whiteness, purity through me as he kissed me over and over. 

I had meant what I had said in the closet: I wanted to be together with him until the end of my days, to die by his hand. I had fantasised about this before, but now that I knew he could go through with it, I shuddered in orgasmic joy as I felt his hands upon my body. His murderer's hands upon my breasts, my waist, now encircling my throat as he lay down on top of me once more, his murderer's cock gliding against the bareness of my child's pussy. My eyes rolled back, fluttered shut as he pushed his cock inside of my pussy, his thumbs upon the hollow of my throat; _This is how I will slay you,_ his hands and his eyes and his smile were saying, his murderer's hands, his murderer's eyes, his murderer's smile.

Yet, as soon as he had entered me, he left my body with a kiss. "I've worshipped you for so many days, my child," he murmured, stroking my chin. "It's about time you worshipped your Daddy a little, don't you think?"

I nodded eagerly, stealing another kiss. "Please," I said, my voice, my pussy sugar-soft, sweet. I would do anything for him, always would have, but never more so than tonight. I was the only one he had trusted with his most terrible secret, a sin far deadlier than those of the flesh. And I wanted to repay him for that, show him how much I loved him for it.

And with love, with reverence he prepared me. I hated the clamps, hated them but he applied them to my nipples nevertheless; he said he wanted me to remain in place, remain on all fours upon the bed. 

He wouldn't have needed to command me: the agony from the clamps froze me in place, dragged me into a stupor of pain, a complete and utter obedience. _This is how they calm down animals,_ I thought, remembering the way Wickman had put an iron upon a horse's lip to keep it from thrashing as it was being shoed. And I was grateful for this, grateful as Torsten cupped my face in both hands and kissed me long, deep. It was a gesture of tenderness, but I knew he was drinking in my pain, my submission, intoxicating himself with them. 

"And now, I am going to prepare your mouth," he said, his lips gleaming from the kiss, his eyes lazy from pleasure. "Stay there." 

He took out a new toy, one I had never seen before. It was another double-ended dildo, made of a white rubber, unlike any other toy we'd played with before. Oh, God, the colour was deliberate; _everything_ would show on the white surface. I remembered all those times when we had both been revolted by what could get caught on our dildos, and now he wanted me to see all of it. Or perhaps it was because _he_ wanted to see all of it, to shock himself, exactly because he had always been the one of us more afraid of shit, to the point of hysteria--the hypocrisy of a man homosexual! 

"I had it made especially for us," he murmured as he displayed the toy for me. "But here is the _pièce de résistance._ " From the bedside drawer, he pulled out an arrangement of leather straps and buckles. "This part goes here..." he said and pulled the dildo through a thick leather ring in the middle of the contraption, so that two thirds of the dildo stuck out from one end, the last third from the other. "Can you guess what it is yet?"

I shook my head.

"Open up." He grinned and held it out to me. "Open up, there's a good girl," he said: he pushed the shorter end of the dildo into my mouth and as he started to buckle the leather straps around my head, I screamed in terror, sure I was suffocating. He'd gagged me before, but never had it been anything this big; I choked on the dildo, coughing and drooling before he had even finished closing the buckles. 

"Can you breathe?" he said, but I wasn't so sure he was all that concerned, going by the wicked glint in his eyes. "Try and breathe, but calmly," he said, now taking the chain of the clamps into his hand. Even his brushing it with his fingers froze me in agony once more, and when he pulled on it lightly, I hurt too much to even moan. He forced me into silence, forced me my breathing to still, stars of pain dancing in my eyes.

"Now. Nod if you can breathe."

I shook my head. 

"Ah, well; more for me, then," he said and loosened the strap that bound the dildo to the mouthpiece. He pulled the dildo towards himself about an inch or so, then reattached the mouthpiece. "Is that better?"

I nodded, but even nodding was agony, sending the chain swinging, so I stopped immediately. 

"Good. Then we can begin," he said, kissing my forehead.

And then he was kissing the cock, chuckling as he traced its head with his tongue. It wasn't just a gesture; he set out to truly fellate the toy, to tease me with it, to drive me absolutely mad. I shook, moaned as I realised this, forced to stay still as but an object, a living extension of the dildo he was now pleasuring himself with. And he had always derived such an exquisite pleasure from sucking cock, from what he could do to men with his mouth, submitting them to his erotic skill. And now, for the first time, he turned that power on me, making me into one of his anonymous cocks, slurping around me hungrily, wetting me with his saliva. Yet this time, he enjoyed it even more than usual, I was sure of it: I could not derive any pleasure from a penis made of rubber in my mouth, so while he got to enjoy all the pleasure it could give him, I was only left with the torture, the teasing, the desperate need to be touched.

This was exactly what he had wanted, and he made himself beautiful in his lust, something for me to crave, adore, something I wanted desperately to possess. He rocked his hips as if he was being fucked, moaning, and as he swallowed the cock into his throat and choked himself upon it, I saw tears glimmering upon his eyelashes. The warm light of the bedside lamp danced upon the long, lean muscles of his back and shoulders, the wide curves of his hips as he lifted his ass out like a cat desiring to mate. The faggot fellating his daughter, the very absurdity of that thought like a Buddhist riddle in my head--another reversal of the world order, another realisation through an experience denied to the plebeians, the meek. And in that realisation, in the ache of my face, my teeth, I floated; in the thrust of the cock into my throat I swum, ecstatic in his service. 

Now I could not call him "Daddy," so I had to use my body to say it, break through the pain of the clamps to manifest it with my movements, each one of his moans becoming inextricably entwined with my agonising pain. But I bore it, I bore it for him; after a while, the pain reached a plateau and I became more aware of the rest of my body. I realised just how much I was drooling, all the way down my neck, my chest; I realised how aroused I was underneath the pain, my pussy so heated its pain had merged with the greater pain from my nipples. But I could not touch myself; he hadn't given me permission, gifting me with the pleasure of denial instead, and it was that pleasure that now stirred my limbs into action. Gradually, I regained some control over my muscles and used each and every one to fuck him back, to give him what he wanted, the thrust of the cock into his throat over and over. 

He had become Heliogabalus again, but now even more so, not just the man-woman but the murderer, the slayer of his enemies. And he slew me, too, as he had slain me every time he had turned his sadism upon me: at each dribble of saliva he left dangling off the cock, at each one of his greedy, whorish gags, all intended to stoke my lust, he slew an anxiety, a fear in my belly. 

He slew me with his beauty, his perversity and I was flowing down my thighs, all sweetness and heat, my pussy sticky as honey. The numbness from the cocaine had receded a little and the plug now felt warm in my ass as I pulsed, swelled around it. My womb was heavy, heated against it, but now I felt my entire body was but cock at the same time, all of me existing purely for him to sate his lust upon. He forced the dildo down his throat again and again to slick it with thick mucus, his own cock dripping at his gagging; his hand was twisted behind his back so that he could finger his ass, the long muscles of his arm straining as he prepared himself for fucking.

Finally, he keened, pulling off, his eyes glazed, fat strings of his spit hanging between the cock and his mouth. Laughing, he scooped them up with his fingers and smeared the spit on his ass, kissing the tip of the cock, the cock that had now become me. "And now, you get to fuck me," he whispered, grazing the head of the cock with his teeth. I shivered; my pussy pulsed as I truly felt that scrape and at the same time, yearned to penetrate him. 

He turned around and spread his ass out for me, pulling the rim of it open with his fingers, so pink between the paleness of his buttocks. I coughed on my drool, unable to suppress a moan as he teased me; he loved that moan and coaxed more from my mouth as he slicked his ass with spit, with mucus, pulling it so open it was gaping a little. My pussy pulsed again and again and I leaned forwards, aching to be inside of him, aching for my cock to be enveloped by that tight, pink flesh, that pussy, that ass. He just laughed and rubbed his hole against the tip of my cock, letting the glans dip in and out a little, opening him further. 

"Show me how much you want it," he crooned, grinning at me over his shoulder. "Show me how you will fuck me."

Deliberately, he pulled away so that I would have to move forwards a little, the chain swinging heavy between my breasts, making my stomach dip and spasm in agony. As he saw the pain on my face, he hissed in delight, wrapping his slick hand around his cock, stroking it softly. "What's the matter? Doesn't my little girl want to fuck her Daddy in the ass?"

I tried to say 'yes' around the gag but coughed; now I was near tears. With one last effort, I took one more step forwards and pressed the tip of my cock against his hole, pleading for him with my eyes. The pain, the need for him was so strong in me that I fancied I could project it into his mind via telepathy: therefore I made the entirety of my mind into but the phrase _Please, Daddy. Please, Daddy,_ I begged him over and over. _Please._

And his mouth opened, the lips smacking apart, quivering, his eyes but sharp blue slits as he lowered himself onto my cock. He moaned as the head dipped into his ass, moaned as he adjusted his position to find the best angle to take it from. I helped him as best as I could, staying as still as possible, offering him my cock, my entire self. And he took it, took every inch of the blood and the bone and the muscle I was now channeling into that cock, took all of me until we were both trembling, until my penetration of him was complete. I saw, _felt_ his ass pulsing around me, now, the muscles of his pelvis clutching me, tugging at my cock, moving it a little in my mouth. Even as he began to move his ass back and forth on the dildo, it was I who was groaning in delight as I sank into his body, his warmth, his slickness.

"Does that feel good?" he cooed over his shoulder, the very image of the boy-prostitute stirring his customer with dirty talk. "Do you like the way my ass feels around your cock? Hmm?"

I whimpered in agreement and pushed my head forwards as best as I could, fucking him harder, now; strings of my own spit mingled with his, brushing his perineum, a glittering cat's cradle suspended between his ass and my face. He snarled and fucked me back, throwing his hips down upon my cock, his moan turning into a long wail as he stroked himself. He fucked my face, ground himself down on me furiously, punishing me with his ass. And at each one of his thrusts, my pussy clenched, now so violently I was afraid the plug would slip out, and I had to slow down, hating it, hating being confined this way. 

Torsten, however, seemed to like my stilling; it was he who was controlling this fuck, taking me with his ass. But then I could not think as--oh, God. I could smell it now. _His shit._ I gagged from the smell, choked from it, even if it was by no means overpowering: I could only see the tiniest hint of yellow upon the dildo, upon the ring of foam now forming at its root, but an inch from my mouth. 

It was then that he groaned deep in his guts and pushed his ass down, deep down, burying my face in his buttocks. I screamed, screamed but he pushed himself even further down, stopping my nose with his ass, that ring of foam now smearing all over the mouthpiece, all over my lips. And yet I screamed, screamed with the last of the air in my lungs, shaking from arousal, disgust; my pussy convulsed so that the plug finally fell out of my ass with a wet slurp. 

He turned around to look at me and just laughed, laughed; he pulled himself off the dildo, then took the plug and held it out next to the dildo, both of them now streaked with yellow. I closed my eyes and whimpered, not wanting to look at them, but he waited, waited silently until I opened my eyes again.

"Now. Which one of us do you want to taste first, my child?" he asked. "Nod once for yourself, twice for me."

I nodded twice. Firstly because the dildo looked cleaner; second, because I was desperate to have at least some part of him to myself, jealous of the rubber. I wanted to wrap my mouth around that dildo, wanted to suck his taste off it, swallow him into myself. "Please," I moaned, choked through the gag, and I was sure he could make out the word. 

And chuckling sweetly, cruelly, he replaced the plug inside of me, shaking his head. "Did you really think it was going to be that easy?" he said, slapping the end of the plug as it slid inside my ass. 

And before I could even groan in answer, it was he who bent down before me and sucked the dildo into his mouth. Greedily, he swallowed it, moaning around it as he tasted the white and the yellow, the soiled foam of his ass. He clutched my head with both hands and whimpered around the dildo; I could hear his own cock slapping against his belly as he did so. My pussy clenched and clenched again, yet unable to come because of the way the plug was now stretching me, and I screamed back at him in my frustration, my disgust as he sucked, licked every trace of his dirty ass from the dildo. All that he had smeared over my lips he now licked off, too, stealing that taste from me, his noises now but little sobs in his throat as he savoured each drop. I hated him, I loved him, I hated him; I screamed it all out at him until I was out of breath, until he withdrew, licking his lips.

"Delicious," he purred, "so very delicious," he said as he unbuckled the gag from around my face.

He hadn't given me permission, but I collapsed upon the bed, sobbing. "You are a monster, Daddy."

"Mm-hmm," he said, smacking his lips as he settled back upon the pillows and spread his legs. "Come here. Come on. Don't you want to taste Daddy?"

I shivered around the plug, shivered; he leaned further back so that he could spread his buttocks, offer me his asshole. As I crawled close to it, I was possessed of the desire to vomit, to come at the same time and feared that the cacophony of this duality, being torn by these two extremes simultaneously would snap me in half, rip me apart. I laid myself down on my belly, my face inches from his ass; yet at the same time, my stomach churned with sickness. 

He just chuckled and petted my hair, then reached into the pocket of his discarded trousers for a small silver box. The cocaine; he spent a long time sniffing it from his fingertips, then offered me several fingerfuls, too, then set down the box. 

"Come here," he said, pulling me into his lap for a kiss. He reached for my breasts and as he removed the clamps from my nipples, the pain exploded through me, the chemical rush of it sending the cocaine surging through my body in one sirocco blast. I screamed into his mouth, screamed more as he pinched my nipples, pulled on them, my pussy clenching again and again and again; the plug fell out of me once more. The white-hot waves rose in me, fanning out from my hips like an iridescent peacock's tail--

"Don't you dare come yet," he snarled, pulling me up by his fists in my hair. "Don't you dare."

"I'm sorry, Daddy," I said, but he slapped me, slapped me again, slapped me until I collapsed between his legs once more, sobbing. 

"Finger your ass," he said, now stroking his cock and spreading his legs. "All four, come on. There's a good girl. Stroke your pussy with your other hand. I'll let you taste me, now, but you are not allowed to come until I tell you to. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Daddy," I said, shivering as I picked myself up. I stroked myself slowly, keeping my hand only to the lips of my pussy; I was so close that I knew the moment I touched my clitoris, I would come undone. 

He smiled and crooked his finger at me. "Come on. Lick Daddy's ass."

His ass looked completely clean; whatever yellow I had seen had disappeared, blended into the colour of his skin, the shadows I now sunk my face into. Emboldened by the cocaine, I began to worship him, lick each and every drop of wetness from him, bathing him with my tongue. He clasped the back of my head and shifted his hips forwards, groaning in delight as I opened him anew with my tongue. His asshole pulsed against my tongue with his moans; as he brought his hand to his cock he clenched even more violently, fucking my face with his ass. And I loved him for it, loved this gift I was being given, whimpering as I started to taste the sweetness of saccharine once more. And instead of disgust, I now craved more, more; I pushed my tongue as deep as I could, between his fingers now pulling his ass open for me, making it gape for me, red and gleaming and delicious. 

I pulled back for air and he was louder, now, breathing heavily, his belly rippling. Hissing between his teeth, he took the dildo once more and with but a few, swift thrusts, buried it inside his ass. "Going to make it dirty for you," he panted, "a little treat for you. That's what you want, isn't it? Isn't it?"

"Yes," I mewled, rubbing my face against the bedcovers. My jaw ached so much, my mouth hurt so much and with my hands on my pussy and my ass, I couldn't hold myself up. I could only lie there, watch as he fucked himself with the dildo, faster and faster, moaning uncontrollably now, his balls high, tight. And there, there, I saw it, saw it: a thin, brown streak upon the underside of the dildo, the thinnest. I screamed at him, stroking my pussy faster, frantic. "Please, Daddy, please let me taste it, please."

"Taste what?" he snarled, stroking himself faster, his arms trembling from exhaustion. "Taste what?"

"Your _shit,_ Daddy," I cried, the very word sending a bolt of heat from my brain to my pussy, another as I sobbed and sobbed and sobbed. The first time the word "shit" wasn't but play, the first time it was there, real and brown and liquid before me. "Please let me taste your shit." I had to have it, I had to, had to finally have it. 

With a howl, he tugged the dildo out and threw it away; he grabbed my hair with both hands and forced my mouth onto his ass. "Come," he growled, "come."

And as he pushed, pushed foam and spit and _shit_ into my mouth, I came so violently I ceased to exist. For one brief, shining moment I was hollow of my self, the filth exploding into purity within me, a freedom from all that would confine me. I expanded, limitless, outside of my body and into his, my tongue and my moans flowing into him as he flowed into my mouth. And as consciousness slowly, slowly returned with the final, violent contractions of my orgasm, I howled in disbelief. Because it should not have tasted so good; _shit should not taste this good,_ so completely unlike it smelled. Perhaps it was the saccharine, but it was still wrong, the paradox of it threatening to plunge me into nonexistence once more. I could not feel anything solid upon my tongue, just wetness, so perhaps that was it; perhaps it was exactly because it was liquid that it was so different to what I had imagined. The taste was light, sweet, bright as that of herbs; I had expected mustiness, the way the glands around his ass turned the taste of his flesh there dark, dank. No matter what he had eaten, this should not have been possible, yet it was. 

I sobbed, howled again, trying to understand it, but he snatched me up by the hair. "Lift up," he snarled, now masturbating faster, his fingers fumbling in my hair. "Give me your fingers; show me your tongue. Show me how _brown_ it is. Show me."

I slipped my fingers inside of his ass; he could take three easily, but the noise he made when I opened my mouth, the noise he made as I stuck out my tongue--it was a scream, shot through with hysteria. His belly dipped and he stared at me, his eyes bulging out of their sockets; "I can see it," he mewled. "Fuck--" he snatched up the silver box to show me, and in the dull reflection I saw it, too. Just the faintest trace of brown, but it was there, there, _my tongue covered in my father's shit_ and at the sight of it, I collapsed into another orgasm, grinding over my hand, sobbing against his belly. He howled, howled and he came all over my cheek, my hair, some of his come pouring down my ear; his ass clenched violently around my fingers. Yet even that hand, he wrenched out of his ass and brought to his mouth; as he sucked my fingers clean, his noises were pitiful, as incredulous as mine had been. 

Perhaps at that moment, even he ceased to exist, I thought as I trembled my last on top of him, nuzzling his sperm onto my skin. He lay there whimpering, clutching at the bedcovers as I sucked his cock clean, lapped all of his sperm off his balls, washed his ass with my tongue. And as he finally opened his eyes, I thought I saw a new man, someone who had seen the other side, beyond; he clutched me to himself and kissed me, still whimpering as he sucked his taste off my tongue.

I was exhausted, but it was he, so much like a woman, who still wanted to continue. "And now for yours," he murmured as he turned me onto my stomach and kissed my ass. He lapped at my hole and I wished I could have seen my ass, wondering if he saw what I had seen on his; but I could only feel him, the familiar tickling sensation of his tongue. Yet I was still not used to how his kisses felt without the moustache: at that moment, a sudden sorrow fell through my chest like a leaden weight. 

"Will we ever be able to go home, Daddy?" I said, swallowing tears in my throat.

"I don't know, my child," he murmured. "But we must stay together, must," he groaned and laid himself on top of me with all his weight, kissing my shoulders, lacing our fingers. 

And as he penetrated my ass, finally, finally, deeper than the plug had been, touching that deepest part in me that had yearned for him all night, hot tears fell to my cheeks. "Don't ever leave me, Daddy," I sobbed as he began to fuck me, "don't ever leave me."

"Never, ever," he said, rolling his hips to punctuate his words, setting off waves deeper, darker, redder than ever before. "Never going to leave my beautiful girl, never, ever."

 _Until the day you kill me,_ I thought, crying out into the bedcovers from the joy of it, pushing my ass back into his thrusts. I was safe, safe, forever safe with him, safe in our madness, safe in our sin, safe in our death. "Then, fuck me," I cried, "fuck me, Daddy, fuck me." 

With a roar, he pulled out of me and flipped me over, and swiftly, he snapped my bracelets and anklets together so that I lay spreadeagled upon the bed, clasping my ankles. He folded my thighs against my body, all of me now so bent that when he entered my ass again it was tighter, much tighter, and oh, it _hurt._ The plug had bruised my ass, and now the cocaine numbness was again fading, yet he kept on fucking me, even as I screamed underneath him, my face contorted, twisted in pain. He laughed, laughed so hard his spittle fell on my face, fucked me so hard drops of my pussy juice sprayed onto his belly. In this position, he kept hitting the curve of my womb, hurting me so much it turned my stomach; I wanted him to get past that curve again, to the place that always turned me into honey. Yet he was so big, his thrusts so fast and brutal I was unable to relax my muscles, to even breathe. 

"Please, Daddy, you're hurting me," I cried.

"Mm-hmm?" he smirked, slowing down a little, pausing to see for himself, taking in my gooseflesh, my paleness, delighting in them.

"Please rub my pussy, Daddy, please, please." 

He leaned down to kiss me, rutting into me slowly, lazily. "And what will you give me for that, my child?

I sobbed as he hit that curve again; he had so rarely taken me unrinsed that the pressure in my guts made the pain worse. "I'll suck it, Daddy, I'll suck it, please rub my pussy, please, please."

He chuckled deep in his chest, that chuckle bubbling out into a long, warm laugh. "I think you would do it anyway, wouldn't you, my pretty little thing?" he said, fondly, caressing my cheek with the back of his hand. He took that hand and brought it to my pussy, dragging his fingertips softly in my wet slit. "I think you would, my dear; I really do think you would."

"Yes," I moaned, closing my eyes in shame, and there, there: he started to rub my clitoris and my body opened for him, melted for him, allowing his cock all the way inside of me. He groaned in delight, stayed still as his hips met my buttocks. There, he kept rubbing me, rubbing me, relishing the way my pussy and my ass now spasmed, clenched around him, my flesh sucking upon his cock. My eyes were barely open; the heat I now felt was so wonderful, so sweet and gentle in comparison to the pain and the cold, sharp, electric orgasms from before. For a moment, we hung suspended in a moment of tenderness, he kissing me softly, fucking me with long, sensuous strokes, never ceasing in his pleasuring of my pussy. 

"I can feel it, you know," he said, his mouth panting open against mine. "Right there," he murmured as he dipped in all the way, balancing on his knees to press me into the bed. His eyes were wide from excitement and he was trembling again, trembling from fatigue and arousal. He groaned deep in his chest and rolled his hips, rolled them, then took my mouth with a kiss once more. "A soft little cushion of _shit,_ " he kissed into my mouth, licking my howls from it, "all nice and sweet for me."

And I kept howling, and he kept flickering his tongue in my mouth, making a point of digging his cock as deep as he could. So that I would not be able to ignore it, so that I would feel it, feel something dragging inside of me alongside his cock, oh, God--I looked down at myself, at him and even upon the dark red flush of his cock, I could see it. I saw the brown smear, bigger than what he'd left on the dildo, moving upon his cock with his thrusts. I screamed, panicked, my head thrashing upon the pillows. "No, Daddy, no, no--"

"Yes," he drawled, long, fucking me smoothly, easily as my pussy betrayed me and dripped over his cock, slicking him further. "You said you would taste it, my child, and now you shall," he said, and his hand, his giant hand hurt my aching jaw as he prised my mouth open. "Open up," he said, the consonants smacking in his mouth, dribbling upon my lips. "Open up, there's a good girl."

I cried out in horror, in gratitude, so glad that he had removed the choice from me. When I had tasted his dirty ass, it had been through the mania of cocaine. But now, as he pulled his shit-streaked cock out and lifted it to my lips, he was holding me down, forcing my mouth open and I had no choice but to obey. As he entered my mouth and I felt it, felt my shit dissolving upon my tongue, I screamed. This was worse, oh, so much worse, and not because it was disgusting; no, it horrified me because again, it tasted _delicious._ And that's why I gagged, rejecting it, trying to spit him out of my mouth, trying to dribble him out. But he wouldn't let me, scooping my spit from the corners of my mouth to taste it for himself, shuddering in delight. 

"How is that possible?" I panted when he finally slipped out of my mouth. It was wrong, so wrong, and the sinner in me was disappointed, having expected something horrible, something she could feel depraved about. But how could you feel bad about something that tasted sweet? I had wanted to be violated, to taste the most awful thing I could imagine tasting, and yet the taste still lingering upon my tongue was _pleasant._ Just as Torsten's, the taste of my shit was almost fresh, not just saccharine; the fact that it tasted herbal of all things turned my mind inside out. Perhaps it was the flavoured cigarettes I had been smoking, perhaps some of the vegetables we had eaten the previous day, but I couldn't understand it. 

"I don't know," he laughed as he entered my ass once more. "But trust you to taste even sweeter than me," he groaned as he started to fuck me again, kissing the taste from my mouth. "Or do you think we should try again?" he said, his laughter now a giggle. "Two out of three?"

"More," I said in my sweetest, wickedest little girl's voice, smiling up at him. "More," and he brought his hand to my pussy again, I now so wet I was dripping well past his cock, all the way around my ass, down to the small of my back. 

He shook his head, kissing me again. "Let me see you come. Get it even tastier, come on." 

"Please, please, please--" I threw my head back on the pillows and trembled from how much I wanted it.

He kept on rubbing my pussy and it didn't take him long to make me come; the very thought of tasting my ass again made me spray his hand. And he continued that way, plunging his cock into my mouth, into my ass, then back into my mouth once more until I no longer knew what I was tasting, no longer knew where one orgasm ended and another began. My ass was so hot, my mouth so hot, now both equally dirty, equally slick, and it made me delirious. I became but one mucous membrane rubbed by his cock, his fingers, his tongue, dripping with fluids white and yellow and brown, all slickness, all friction, all heat. Until his cock made my very throat into another ass, until it felt my throat, too, was coming, my gagging pushing me into hysterical, unstoppable convulsions. 

And all through these things, all through my wetness, my dirtiness, my sweetness he kept on fucking me; I was light-headed, losing knowledge of myself once more. That's how deep he was inside of me, now inseparable from me, as if his movements followed the wishes of my mind, so intuitive, so perfect. And as he put his hands to my throat and squeezed, stopping my breath until I spasmed, I came for one last time, with him. He roared as he flooded my ass, roared, fucking me so hard the welts on my back were now bleeding, and as he released my throat I shook in death throes, drowning. 

Upon seeing this, feeling this he cried out even louder, gathering me against himself, coming for so long and so hard his sperm leaked out of me with each thrust. And at each of those thrusts, with each wet sound of our flesh, with each of his wet whimpers, but four words echoed through my mind: _My father, my murderer._ He would be my end, my final resting place, just as he now rested inside of my body, and I was at peace, peace.

He replaced the plug inside of me, then pulled me into his arms, drowning me in exhausted kisses. We dozed off for a while, but the remains of the cocaine prevented us from falling into true sleep; we stirred again and again for kisses, caresses, wine. I clasped him in my hand, sucked him, but he was too tired to grow fully erect; I loved him nevertheless, sucking each last taste of myself off him. He turned me around so that we could pleasure each other with our mouths; soon I was even more restless, awakened completely by his sucking of my pussy. He just chuckled and pulled me to sit on his face; he sighed in adoration as he kept on licking my pussy, massaging the plug in my ass. 

"There is one more thing we haven't done yet," he said softly, smacking my buttocks. 

"What is it?" I said, grinding my hips down, desperate to have him kiss me some more. 

And of course, of course: within minutes, we were in the bathroom, kneeling in the tub. He was so soft he barely had any time to piss inside my ass before it closed down on him and pushed him out, but he managed a small trickle. And now it was he who was begging, moaning, pleading for me. "Piss and shit and come," he cried his mantra, a shrill cry as I shat it all into his mouth, bursting all over his face. He groaned into my ass as he drank it from me, repeating the act over and over until he was dripping wet, soiled, sated. And without shame, I turned in his arms and kissed him on the mouth, our perversion satisfied, perfected, complete.

***

"How many fetishes do we even have left?" I asked as I leaned back into his arms in the tub, after we'd showered, after we'd drawn a bath.

He hugged me to himself and laughed, pushing the bath foam aside so that he could see my breasts, cup them. "Should we care? I'm sure we can always find something. What with the way technology is developing these days, who knows, soon we will be having orgies with machines."

I craned my head so that I could rest it upon his shoulder, rub my cheek against his stubbled cheek. "When are you going to tell me?"

Immediately, he knew what I meant. "Are you sure you wouldn't rather hear it tomorrow?"

"Now, Daddy." 

He was quiet for a while, playing with the foam. He must have been thinking of how to tell me this ever since he had committed the murder, how to describe it best--and knowing of his penchant for drama, I let him have his dramatic pause. 

"It was hypnosis, of course," he murmured in my ear, kissing it. "Anita."

"I knew it."

"Interrupting me already. Bad girl." He pinched my nipples until I yelped. 

"I'm sorry," I laughed, breathless, protecting my sore breasts with my hands. "Go on."

"As I was _saying,_ it was Anita. I told her what Smythe had done to you and the rest was simple female solidarity. She was quite keen on avenging you." 

"I'm touched," I smirked.

"That, and I paid her better. Smythe, the old fool, trusted her completely. Once she'd put him under, she made him write the confession, made him 'forget' his cane at her apartment, and everything from that point on was sheer luck. Well, Acheron drowning him at least," he said, bringing his hand to my waist. "That one, I had not planned on--I had planned for Smythe to go to the police himself. But it was quite nice of Acheron to play into our hands that way, wasn't it?"

"So he really did love Birgitte," I said, clasping Torsten's hand and kissing it.

"Very much, I expect." He nuzzled my cheek. "Do you want to hear about the murder itself?"

"Not in particular, but I know you want to tell me. Go on."

"There isn't much to tell," he shrugged. "It was all over in a few minutes."

"Did you feel any remorse?" 

"Define 'remorse'."

"That settles it, then," I murmured, kissing his ear. "You are incapable of feeling it."

He winced a little. "I felt it was a waste. But you'd shown me her notebook. And after what Smythe had done, the sacrifice was--" he waved his hand. "Pshh. It was no sacrifice at all."

His cold-bloodedness aroused me. I remembered the portrait of Eva Barring, the woman who had murdered her husband, the ancestress of our line. Was it her blood, her spirit that still lived on in him, in us? At times I believed the Barring curse was a myth, nothing more, an entertaining romance, but I wondered if it wasn't somewhere in our genetic makeup. Like a physical trait that disappears for a generation or two, but then resurfaces, having lain dormant for years, waiting for the right person to incarnate it once more. Again, I wondered if this was why they had sterilised Torsten, if there had been something in his youth that had manifested that curse that he had not told me about. But tonight was not the night to ask him that question. 

"Had you ever killed anyone before?"

"No," he said quietly, lost in thought. "I felt strangely detached about it, you know; distinctly technical. I had expected her struggle to take longer, but like I said, it was surprisingly quick."

"Were you really nauseous afterwards or did you just pretend?"

He shook his head. "It was real."

I had nothing more to ask. I was empty of everything now, it seemed, and so was he, having made his confession. 

"Come. Let's go to bed."

We dried off and dressed in silence; by the time we made it to the bed, it felt as if we were finally tired enough to sleep. The last thing I saw was the flicker of the lanterns as they died, leaving us in complete darkness. I curled up in his arms and laid my head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat.

"Daddy?" I asked, my voice quiet in the dark.

"Yes?"

"There's something I need to tell you."

I could feel him smiling. "What is it, my child? Tell me."

I laced my fingers with his and kissed him. I let him wait for it, kissing him thoroughly, kissing him long; once I had finished, I drew back with a sigh of utter contentment.

"Torsten Barring, you are a _magnificent bastard._ "

He pulled me into a kiss and laughed, his laughter as soft and as warm as the night.

***

END

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Collage post illustrating the entire fic [here.](http://aikainkauna.tumblr.com/post/142620840723/fic-collage-dance-with-the-devil-part-2-of-the) (Very very NSFW.)

**Author's Note:**

> Should you want to rec the fic, there's a rebloggable announcement post on Tumblr [here,]() and a more Hiddlestastic version with Robbie [here.](http://aikainkauna.tumblr.com/post/106109241373/fic-dance-with-the-devil-torsten-barringlaura)


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